


don't need no ammunition (ain't the bridge that's falling down)

by anthropologicalhands



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Loki's Identity Crisis, Road Trip, What-If, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthropologicalhands/pseuds/anthropologicalhands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor (2011) AU. After the battle at Jotunheim, something goes wrong and Sif finds herself stranded on Midgard. Jane is still chasing bridges and wants to know how this strange woman got in her atmospheric disturbance. Darcy's psyched...and a little freaked out.  Meanwhile, Thor and Loki embark on an quest (actually: intergalactic road trip) to rescue Sif. Thor has to prove himself. Loki is having an identity crisis. Do the math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

One does not simply _fall out_ of the Bifrost, especially not one as well-versed in its travel as the Lady Sif of Asgard. The half-sister of Heimdell the Gatekeeper, she knows better than any of them the feel of the bridge.

The rush of the Bifrost, the roar as they pass countless galaxies, is as comforting to Sif as any lullaby. Even with an army of Jotuns poised to strike them, Sif feels a soothing calm as the Bifrost envelops her, to transport her friends and ruler to safety.

This intimacy means, even preoccupied as she is with their narrow escape and the wrath of Odin to come, she knows immediately when something _shifts_ in the Bifrost.

Her ascent is halted, and for a moment she hovers in the void, surrounded by stars, watching her friends flying up and away from her.

And she falls.

She cannot reach out to them—the force by which they travel is too great for her to grasp an arm, a cloak, anything to keep her settled.

She cries out, but nothing overwhelms the roar of the Bifrost as it inverts and pulls her away from her home.

All she sees are stars, bursting and fading all around her. She is dizzy with the speed at which she is pulled into the unknown.

And, all too quickly, she is grounded. There is no room even for terror. So forceful is her landing that it is a miracle her legs still support her body.

Wind howls and dust swirls around her; she cannot breathe through the sand that fills her eyes and nose, the scent of burning vegetation beneath her feet. This is no controlled landing of Heimdell’s: she is disoriented, the world is dark and clouded and her ears are full of the roaring wind.

And then she realizes that the roaring is only not in her ears, but emitting from a source of expanding light.

She throws up her arms, prepared to block any upcoming enemy. The standing force of an Asgardian is more than a match for any creature of any world—

Something heavy and metallic slams into her and knocks her off her feet.

Above the dying wind of the Bifrost, she hears a young woman’s voice.

\--

At the beginning of the summer, when asked what sort of trouble she planned to find in New Mexico, Darcy Lewis declared that she was going to Puente Antiguo precisely _because_ there was no trouble to be found.

True, her boss is…intense, and physics has never been Darcy’s cup of tea, but Jane Foster is also nice and smart and actually really good at making all this stuff make sense, so Darcy’s not totally out of her depth, the way she thought she would be at the start of the summer when she first stepped into the garage and saw all those beeping machines and flashing numbers.

She might not be getting paid, but collecting and processing atmospheric disturbance data isn’t too difficult, once she gets the hang of it. She has a lot of free time, there’s strong wifi connection and the food is much better than the startup she interned for last summer. Even better, for all the jokes Darcy heard at Culver about taking on a “UFO conspiracy mission”, Jane’s research actually seems to be going somewhere, to the point she has her astrophysics professor-slash-family friend fly down to witness the next predicted occurrence, which means that Darcy’s name might be printed in an astrophysics journal, which is both awesome and will totally help her CV.

True, it’s painfully hot and she’s been going through jumbo bottles of sunblock at record speeds, but Darcy likes her little bubble.

Of course, then the ‘subtle aurora’ turns into a full-fledged tornado and Darcy discovers her boss has no survival instinct and is making her drive _right into the middle of it_.

Then it gets worse: there’s someone already standing in the middle of the storm.

And Darcy can’t break or swerve in time so she _hits_ her.

For a good five minutes, as they scramble out of the car and she turns on her flashlight, Darcy is panicking that she might have actually _killed_ someone, that she hates driving big cars and she never should have turned down her aunt’s offer of waitressing.

“Please don’t be dead,” says Jane when they reach the body. Somehow, hearing the words rattling around in Darcy’s head aloud helps her calm down enough that when she shines the flashlight on the woman her hands don’t shake. Jane is not the most reliable person in the world, but she knows what she’s doing.

The woman groans and sits up. Disheveled and dusty, but not dead, thank God. Metal scrapes and for the first time Darcy can see that the woman is wearing armor.

“Where am I?” she demands, speech a little slurred, but sounding pretty good for someone who was almost run over.

“Good!” says Darcy feeling her voice hit an absurdly high pitch, “You’re talking! Are you all right?”

The woman does not seem to hear.

“What world is this?” she demands, staggering to her feet. She towers easily over both Darcy and Jane. Darcy stands quickly as well, and sees that the woman isn’t just tall, she’s even with Erik.

“It’s all right,” says Erik soothingly, because Jane is crouching in the sand, distracted by something on the ground. Strange gouges in the sand that almost look like runes. “Who are you? Is there anyone we can call?”

“Were you LARPing or something?” asks Darcy, unable to take her eyes off the armor.

The woman stares at her. “I do not understand. This is Midgard?”

“Erik, come look at this!” says Jane, fumbling in her bag, whipping out her camera.

“More like Puente Antiguo,” says Darcy. Jane is taking pictures of the patterns in the sand. “Um, do you need to go to the hospital? We kind of knocked you over…”

The woman only shakes her head. “No, you did not. I…I fell. Heimdell’s grasp was not sufficient.”

She looks up to the sky. “Brother! You have sent me to the wrong realm, call me back!”

Darcy is _definitely_ sure that this woman needs to go to the hospital, because half the words coming out of her mouth make no sense whatsoever. Probably a concussion. This is going to go on her record. Oh _God_ , she is screwed.

“Heimdell!” The woman is frantic. “Can you not hear your own sister? Sif calls for you! _Heimdell!_ ”

“Miss, I think you need to see a doctor. Come and we’ll take you to the hospital.” Erik has both his hands up, and he is walking around her, trying to get closer without getting too close.

“I do not need a healer.”

Darcy has gotten sufficiently close to the woman to see that her armor is actually beaten and splattered with blood. She scans the surrounding area for another body, because no way did that blood come from the woman (Sif?) alone.

“I really think you do,” says Darcy.

…Which is exactly the wrong thing to say. The woman scowls down at them all, then draws—dear God, she has a sword and it doesn’t look fake.

“Do I look like I require _any_ of your—”

Darcy tases her. Jane and Erik look at her like she’s the crazy one and the woman (she calls herself Sif, right?) sprawls across the dirt, unconscious.

Bubble definitely burst.

\--

Thor’s vision is still red with battlelust as they stumble through the portal. He does not understand Odin’s refusal to fight, to join his sons in battle. They have run away, abandoned their enemy! This is no way for a warrior to behave!

But they have also returned less than they were.

He looks around at them, and his rage subsides into a confusion that cannot cloud the sudden curl of fear in his chest.

“Where is Sif?” asks Hogun.

There is Fandral, stabbed clean through. There is Volstagg, supporting him despite the frostbite searing his forearm. Hogun is at Fandral’s other side. Loki stands apart, paler than usual, shaken perhaps by their fight.

But he straightens at Hogun’s question. His body language is all too alert.

“Get him to the infirmary,” Odin orders, indicating Fandral. They hasten away, Fandral’s body heavy across their arms.

Odin turns back to Heimdell. “Where is the Lady Sif?”

Heimdell’s face is unreadable. “I could not hold my sister.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snarls Loki. His entire being is quivering, though whether with rage or fear or exhaustion, Thor cannot tell. “You have transported entire armies across the realms unharmed. How could you ever lose your own sister?”

“We must retrieve her,” says Thor. He turns back to Heimdell, still at his post. “Heimdell, where is she now?”

“She is unharmed,” says Heimdell, his gaze beyond Thor, into the void. “More, I cannot say.”

“And they call me the Lie-Smith—”

“Loki, _silence_ ,” orders Odin. Loki glowers, but recedes.

“Father, we must find her,” says Thor. “She could be still in Jotunheim.”

“She is not,” says Odin.  He looks down upon Thor, his face inscrutable. “Besides, the loss of one warrior, no matter how close a friend, is nothing in the face of such carelessness as you have demonstrated today.”

“But it _is_ something,” says Thor forcefully. “Why stall a rescue? I would be but a moment in finding her.”

Loki scoffs. “A moment, dear brother? Searching across nine realms, none of which we have ever traversed in their entirety? Yes, _of course_ it would be a simple task.”

“It would be a _challenge_ ,” says Thor, glaring at Loki, “But hardly beyond our means. Father, I would do anything to find her.”

Odin looks long and hard at Thor.

“I would not trust you with such a quest. You, who today behaved like a cruel child and not as Asgard’s future king. You who have broken a thousand years of peace. Perhaps you are not worthy of Mjolnir.”

Each word is a blow. Thor flinches away, as if he might physically avoid their sting. Still, he is not shattered, and straightens, stands firm once again.

“I behaved foolishly today,” he says, slowly. Now is not the time for rashness. The desire to meet the Jotun in battle ebbs away in the face of Odin and the reality of Sif’s loss. “But do not punish Sif for my mistake. I will retrieve her. I will earn your trust again. I will prove myself with Mjolnir. Make it a quest. Set whatever conditions you must and I will follow them without question. Allow me the chance to prove that your faith in your heir is not blind.”

He falls silent as Odin studies him, his good eye searing. Loki watches in his periphery.

“I have much to consider,” says Odin at last. “Regarding this situation with Jotenheim. You have not proven yourself worthy of mediating it. If I send you traversing across the Nine Realms, without direction, without purpose, who is to say it will not end up as this little endeavor, with Asgard on the brink of war?”

The reproach burns, and Thor forces himself to avert his gaze.

“But perhaps you are not wrong. Perhaps you can be redeemed.”

Thor feels the knot in his throat loosen, but does not speak. He knows his luck.

He waits for Odin’s decree.

“You are tasked with finding the Lady Sif. No master in Asgard will assist you. Not Heimdell, not any court wizard—not your mother. My conditions are these: you _will not use force_ until the Lady Sif has been retrieved. Any conflict that arises must be resolved by other means. You will carry Mjolnir with you, so that you will understand the weight of power that is not to be used. Do you understand me?”

It is a more generous chance than he deserves. Thor kneels, does not permit himself to look up into his father’s face.

“I understand, Allfather.”

“Good luck, my son.” Odin’s voice is no longer that of a ruler. It is less hard, more tired than Thor has heard in years. “Perhaps you will prove yourself worthy after all.”

With that final proclamation, he mounts Sleipnir and departs for the palace. For the War Room.

“A fine mess you have gotten yourself into, Brother,” says Loki, finally coming to stand beside him, hands clasped behind his back. “Now, what do you plan to do now?”

\--

They take her to the hospital.

“What is your relationship to the patient?” asks the receptionist.

“I’ve never seen her before,” says Jane. She looks at Darcy. “Does she look familiar at all to you? I couldn’t tell with the armor.”

Darcy shakes her head. She’s snuck into the local bar a couple of times, and down Main Street for shopping. Sif would stand out for sure. Even when the nurses had her on the gurney, her eyes rolling in her skull, Darcy is pretty sure Sif would spark something familiar.

“We’ll keep her overnight for observation,” says the receptionist. “She has a few bruises, but nothing serious.”

“Did you take away her sword?” asks Darcy.

The receptionist gives her a very cold stare. “Naturally,” she says, in a voice probably capable of bringing back the glaciers if she aimed right. “We have stored her weapon safely away.”

“Could you call when she wakes up?” asks Jane, drumming her fingers on the desk. “She was in the middle of a...I want to talk to her about the storm she was caught in.”

Darcy wishes she was surprised. But she has a pretty good idea of Jane’s boundaries when it comes to their research, and giving a telephone number to a perfect stranger who threatened them with weapons is, all things considered, pretty tame.”

Still.

She looks at Jane. “ _Seriously?”_

Jane shrugs defensively, an obstinate set to her mouth. “She might be able to tell us something once she’s feeling better.”

“And we also want to make sure she gets where she needs to be safely,” Erik adds.

“That too,” says Jane.

\--

They return to the garage around four in the morning. Darcy crashes on the couch, not even bothering to return to her trailer. When she wakes, Jane is printing pictures of the storm and sticking them to her corkboard. Darcy doubts she slept, but Jane’s hair is wet from a shower and she’s wearing fresh clothes, so Darcy lets it go for now and starts the coffee machine. At eight, Erik returns from one of the darker corners of the garage he has been staying in to give them a hand. He starts sliding into lecture mode when Darcy tries to clarify one of the terms him and Jane keep bouncing back and forth, but Jane comes to her rescue.

Darcy is pinning up her fourth photograph before she sees it.

“Uh, guys?” Jane and Erik look up from where they are huddling over Jane’s laptop. “You might want to take a look at this.”

There’s a blurred human shape in the very center of the storm.

Not entirely surprising, given Sif’s presence there.

Except the shape is in freefall.

“My god,” says Erik.

Jane’s already heading for the van.

They are halfway to the hospital when Jane’s cell phone starts ringing. Jane is at the wheel, so Darcy is the one to answer.

“Dr. Foster’s number, Darcy Lewis speaking.”

“This is the hospital calling about the patient you brought in last night.”

“Uh oh.”

It turns out that Sif woke up. And she was _not happy_. In fact, she was just unhappy enough to quote-unquote “refuse treatment” and throw around a few members of the hospital staff before they sedated her. No one was hurt, luckily. But she did manage to put a gurney through the wall.

“I hope they don’t charge us for that,” says Darcy as they follow the nurse to the private room. “You know, since we brought her here and all of that.”

“Shush, Darcy.”

“Shushing.”

\--

She could break the restraints they have placed upon her. The potion they have injected into her body will burn off soon enough; though she admits its effects are more potent than she expected. Midgardian medicine has advanced impressively over the past few centuries, if they can sedate an Asgardian.

Her head aches. Something more than a thought and less than a voice resonates within her.

_Sister?_

Heimdell’s whisper in her mind is both a relief and a furor, at once.

_Brother! Were your ears blocked by wax? How dare you drop me!_

_We all make mistakes. You are unharmed._

His tone is so flat, Sif is certain he must be joking.

_In a matter of speaking. The mortals have grown adept at defending themselves. Now, enough of this. Bring me home._

_I cannot._

_What?_

_The Allfather has seen fit to teach Thor a lesson in humility. His mission is to retrieve you, without force, and without my aid._

Sif is filled with such rage with her brother’s words that she snarls aloud, like a Jotunheim beast. The sound reverberates throughout the room.

 _I am to be the_ reward _at the end of a quest?_

 _My apologies, dear sister._ His contrition feels genuine, though it does not soothe Sif’s hackles. _Fear not, Thor is not alone. Loki and the Warriors Three accompany him. They are on their way._

_I can find my own way back, Heimdell. I require no assistance._

_I do not doubt you. Unfortunately, Sister, this is not about you._

Sif sighs, suddenly, unbearably tired. _Of course not. I did not become a warrior to play a damsel when it suits others, Brother._

_I know. I am sorry. But it is only Earth._

Sif sighs again. _.I know. Don’t worry, I will find something to accompany my time until they do._

_Thank you, Sister. Try not to start a war. We are perilously close to one. Two might be pushing it._

Their link terminates before Sif can snap a suitable reply. She seethes, her brother’s chide still in her ears. She was not abandoned by mere accident—her brother would never be so foolish. Perhaps others would believe it, after the Jotuns, but how dare he expect her to accept such vagaries?

 _Well, he doesn’t_ need _you to believe him_ ; a tart voice in her head reminds her. _Not for as long as you don’t have a way off the planet._

 _You are stuck here. You just need to find a better way to spend your time_.

There are restraints around her wrists. Nothing that chafes, but stiff enough to limit her reach. She could snap them easily, but they are just loose enough that she might be able to slip her hands through.

Still, that begs the question of what she is going to do until either she finds her own way back to Asgard, Heimdell be damned, or Thor and Loki do catch up with her.

The door of her room unlocks.

\--

They have her strapped down to the bed in a private room. She looks up when they enter the room, and Darcy swears she sees Sif slip her wrist back through the restraints.

Jane, of course, approaches the bed first. Darcy and Erik follow unwillingly, more to spring in to protect Jane than any desire to speak to the patient.

“Hey, how you feeling?” asks Jane.

Sif lays her head back on the pillow. She doesn’t look drowsy anymore, but still kind of groggy. Not surprising, Darcy thinks, after all the drugs the hospital probably pumped into her after her little…fuss.

“My head feels as though it is full of wool,” she complains. Darcy nods in sympathy.

“I hear you. But listen, we can get you out of here.”

Sif blinks and continues speaking, like she doesn’t understand. “They speak to me as though I was an infant. They do not believe me when I tell them who I am.”

“Well, we do,” says Jane, bending down, looking Sif full in the eyes, without flinching. “We have evidence. Pictures. We know you fell. If you agree to answer our questions, we can get you out of here. You can stay with us, instead of the hospital.”

Sif tilts her head to one side.

“You give me your word,” says Sif.

“Yes.”

“You do not give it lightly.”

“I don’t. Especially not for something like this,” says Jane fiercely.

Sif regards her for a long moment, her gaze assessing and sharp. Unexpectedly, she smirks.

“What is your name, mortal?”

“Jane Foster.”

“Jane Foster,” says Sif, testing the name on her tongue. “I accept your offer.”

\--

Sif is gone.

Even over the thrum of blood throughout Loki’s body, the harsh beating of his heart from their near escape, the crawling of magic over his skin that he has never known before, there is no confusion within him.

He does not panic at the realization she is missing. His mind and body, already so high strung from the events of Jotunheim, are easily led to rage.

Heimdell, in his infinite wisdom, misplace his own sister?

Does no one else see how preposterous the notion is?

How could Heimdell lose Sif? How could Loki, who has found ways to bypass the all-seeing guardian, who is the strongest sorcerer in Asgard save the Allmother, not know where Sif has gone?

It is a plot, and though most days Loki is happy to spend the time to puzzle it out, today he is decidedly not.

He can feel her pulse at the back of his mind, as alive as Thor’s besides him and Fandral in the Healers’ Hall and Frigga in her quarters. She is alive, that much is certain. But he cannot place her. Her face is clear, but when he tries to picture her surroundings, they slip and blur around her. There is nothing distinguishable that he can dredge up.

Besides him, Thor is quiet. Thoughtful, for once. No longer distracted by his own desire to be a warrior and king, perhaps he will come up with something useful with which to rescue Sif. Odin placed no task before Loki—he will observe.

“Brother,” says Thor at last. “You alone, apart from Heimdell, would know how to find the paths apart from the Bifrost. Different ways between the realms. Would this be true?”

“It might,” acknowledges Loki, warily.

“Then would you know how to traverse them?”

“Perhaps.”

Thor turns to face him directly, and his face is triumphant.

“Then would you join me in finding Sif? There is no one with whom I—or Sif, though I dare not speak on her behalf, I believe she would be of the same mind as myself—hold in greater esteem.”

Sometimes, Loki envies his brother. Sometimes greatly, to the point where he aches to see Thor suffer, where he is willing to make deals with Jotun just to ruin what should be a day of celebration.

But sometimes his envy is for something so much smaller. Such as right now, when Thor has no fear of asking for help. Not even when in presence of all-knowing, all-seeing Heimdell.

Did he see what happened on Jotunheim?

Loki looks down at his hands. His ordinary hands, though he knows now that it is false. Must be false…

Father. He must speak to Father—

“I am not sure that I am permitted,” says Loki carefully, though his mind is only half on his words. “I would not dare impugn on the conditions of your task and have you fail, Brother.”

“Indeed,” says Thor. “But Father did not specifically name you to exclude your help. Even I with my lead tongue could argue that omission. And since when do you care for permission, anyways?”

“Since when do you try to play into Father’s hands?” snaps Loki.

“There is no one better in finding ways beyond the ordinary. And no one else could do so securely.”

Loki remains silent. Some part of him preens at this high regard. Another remembers a harsh reprimand: _know your place, Brother_.

“Brother,” says Thor. “Please. Sif needs us.”

But perhaps he is hasty. It is not just a quest. And though he may not be able to see where she is, Loki finds he can picture her reaction to any refusal he makes to help quite clearly.

Loki looks to Thor.

“She never _needs_ us, Brother. However, I dare not risk her wrath should she learn I refused to come to her aid.”

Thor grins, hopelessly happy. Loki wrestles with a rush of affection quite at odds with his current state of mind. This is his brother. His brother who considers the Jotun to be monsters.

But hadn’t Loki himself done so, even as he snuck them through into Asgard?

 _Speak with Father later_ , the corners of his mind whisper. _There is time. You do not know what you saw. Find Sif now_.

Aloud, he says, “When do you propose to start? Our most honored gatekeeper could have dropped her anywhere from Nidavellir toRia .”

He does not care that Heimdell can hear him—truly; Sif’s brother must be losing his wits if he expects Loki to believe Sif’s loss is such an accident. He looks long and hard at the guardian. Impassive, Heimdell looks back. There is nothing knowing there, no subterfuge, but Loki averts his gaze. He feels exposed, and for one chilling moment wonders if Heimdell witnessed—

“A friendly realm,” says Thor. “One that welcomes the presence of Asgard. That would be familiar to Sif. Earth. The dwarves’ realm. Vanaheim. Do you know of paths to those worlds?”

“There is one in particular,” says Loki. The dull panic in his head recedes. This is good, that Thor will defer to him in this matter. He feels some of his calm, his own control, reassert itself. Whatever happened on Jotunheim can be dealt with later. For now, Loki is in his element. “Though I will let you guess when we find it. Follow me, Brother, and you will find out what fascinating secrets have lain under Asgard since before you were born.”

\--

“So… _Sif_. What do you do for a living?” asks Darcy, around a mouthful of pizza. They sit at the table in the kitchen with Jane and Selvig, three pizzas stacked on the counter. Sif has exchanged her hospital gown for Darcy’s spare pair of plaid pajamas. Darcy is thankful she buys them one size too big, because they only just barely fit Sif. Every move she makes defines the muscles of her legs, and the sleeves are far too short.

Sif wipes her mouth with a napkin before answering.

“I am a warrior of Asgard. My title is the Lady Sif, Shieldmaiden of Asgard.”

“Cool,” says Darcy. She can kind of see it. Sif is _really fit_. Granted, that also means she believes that Sif is an alien warrior babe, but Sif has no qualms about swallowing pizza slices whole, so Darcy doubts she could be that bad even if she is crazy.

 _Jane_ , on the other hand, is drinking it up. Darcy privately wonders how frustrated she has been with her research to get to the point she is willing to consider that a crazy person is actually an alien. Erik seems to be feeling the same way, if the way he keeps casting glancing covertly at her is any indication.

“That storm you were in, you called it the Bifrost. What does that mean?” asks Jane. Her notebook is open in her lap, and she keeps taking notes, flipping back and forth between certain pages.

“It was not a storm. The storm was a side effect of opening the Bifrost on Earth. It is more of a bridge between Asgard and the other realms.”

“Other realms—you travel the Bifrost to more than one world?” Jane’s eyes gleam.

Sif nods. “My brother Heimdell is its gatekeeper. He stands guard in the Observatory.”

“Observatory?”

Darcy glances over at Jane to see if she’s going to swoon. She’s not, though it looks like a very close call. She looks to Erik for commiseration, but right now he just looks like someone punched him.

“So. All-seeing brother. Does that mean he knows you’re here?” she asks Sif.

Sif nods. She looks troubled. “He should. He was in charge of our path. My destination was Asgard, not Midgard. And yet, here I am now.”

“Could it be a joke?” Darcy has no brothers herself, but she does have a younger sister she has wanted to wish away more than once.

Sif shakes her head. “My brother is not one for jokes at the best of times. He would consider misplacing any traveler to be a terrible failure.”

“Well, can’t he just take you back?” Darcy makes grabby motions with her hands.

Sif shakes her head. “If I understand what has come to pass, Heimdell has orders not to open the Bifrost for no one. They would come directly from the Allfather.”

“So he abandoned you?”

“It is not _abandonment_ ,” Sif says, holding her head high. “He will fetch me eventually.”

“How do you know?”

“I do.”

“Asgard,” cuts in Erik. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Sif looks interested. “Oh?”

“It was the name of the realm of the gods, in my homeland.”

Sif looks at him in askance. “We call it the heavenly realm, though we are not gods. We are powerful, certainly—our Allfather most of all—but we are not gods. How do you know of us?”

“Stories...Stories from my childhood. I grew up with tales of Thor, Freyja, Odin—all of them.”

Sif laughs, delighted. “What strange stories they must be! You will have to tell me before I must return. Thor especially would love to hear what you mortals have said about him.”

“Thor exists?”

“Of course he exists! He is half the reason I am here today.” She sounds annoyed, but there’s worry in her tone Darcy was not expecting.

Erik doesn’t say anything. Darcy supposes he might be having trouble with the whole, my-homeland’s-stories-are-based-on-aliens thing. To her, personally, it’s not that weird. Apart from some impressive durability, Sif hasn’t been displaying any particular powers or anything, but Darcy wouldn’t be surprised that anyone thought she was a goddess, if only for how _built_ she is.

“Well, if you don’t mind being poked at, you’re welcome here,” says Darcy. “Metaphorically, anyways.”

Sif is not paying attention. She’s looking at Erik. “You do not believe me.”

Erik shrugs. “I believe that you were in the middle of a powerful storm. Other than that, I cannot say one thing or another.”

Sif looks to Jane. “Do you?”

“I do,” says Jane.

“It makes as much sense as half the stuff that happens around here” says Darcy, shrugging.

Sif crams the remaining crust into her mouth and stands. “Come outside. I can prove that I am not lying.”

\--

Jane believes.

Jane wholly and fully believes that Sif knows something about her star storm. Why for a span of minutes Earth’s constellations disappeared and they looked up into another sky. If Sif says she is an alien—it doesn’t contradict anything else that they’ve seen. And Jane got a good look at that armor—the material is strange, like no metal she has ever seen.

Darcy and Erik…are trying to look out for her. Jane knows that. Jane appreciates it. But they don’t quite buy that Sif is an alien.

Though, they probably do now.

“Well?” asks Sif. The sun has set, the desert is freezing, and Sif is holding Jane’s van aloft as if it was nothing. Mercifully, it is empty of all scientific equipment, at Jane’s insistence. “Are my words not true?”

“Wow,” says Darcy.

“My god,” says Erik at the same time.

“All right, all right,” says Jane, exasperated. “Put down the van and get inside before a satellite spots you.”

\--

They make up a bed for Sif in the garage, with the spare cot Jane keeps in the lab and several blankets, after she has sworn not to touch any of the equipment and alert Jane if anything starts beeping.

Darcy has her own trailer, which she thought was a nightmare when she first saw it, but now really likes. She keeps the blinds open at night, even after she’s turned out the lights, just to see the stars. She’s not Jane, but she didn’t pick up an astrophysics internship for _nothing_.

So she sees when a tall, dark figure slips out of the garage, and climbs the ladder up to the roof. Though Darcy watches until her eyes get too heavy and she falls asleep, no one climbs back down.

\--

They do not leave Asgard from the Observatory. Loki knows the right spells to travel outside of Asgard, but to travel undetected as he does, you must know where the veils between realms are the thinnest.

They pass through the streets and the villages, making their way into the underbelly, places where the forests are the darkest and countless children have been lost and found again. Loki has only used this particular entrance a couple of times, but it was the first he discovered, exploring Asgard on his own. It is not so far that he must teleport them, and it is a wonder that no one else on Asgard has expressed enough curiosity about their surroundings to stumble upon it.

“Here we are,” says Loki at last, coming to a stop in front of the entrance—a pile of vast boulders, at least double Thor’s height. He feels a surge of satisfaction at the confusion on his brother’s face.

“I cannot say that I see anything of value here, Loki,” says Thor. “You will have to show me.”

Loki nods only once. “Follow me and do as I say.”

He steps forward, and presses his palms directly to the nearest boulder. It melts under his hands and they are left with a gaping black entrance in front of them.

“It looks like a cave,” says Thor. “Hardly what I would expect of a portal between worlds.”

“Not everything in the realm is as flashy as you are, Brother,” says Loki. He cups his palm and a small green flame flickers at its center. “Stay close to me. Neither of us want to find out just how winding this path may be.”

\--

Thor, unsurprisingly, he adapts quickly to navigating the pitch black void, following Loki’s instructions without comment. This is hardly a surprise—for all that his brother is an oaf, he can be as versatile as Loki in adapting to new situations.

They come out, not of a similar rocky structure, but find themselves standing in the middle of a vast field.

“Loki, this is incredible!” He looks out across the grassy plains, tipped with gold. “This is Vanaheim, if I am not mistaken.”

“I thought it would be the best place to start our search.” Loki knows the passageway best, and considers it one of the safest. Besides, he reasons, all they need to do is ask Hogun’s lord, and then there should be no problem. Vanaheim is a close ally, familiar with Asgard and its heroes and friendly to its prince.

As Loki expects, it is a very short visit.

Just not for the reasons he expected.

“No one has seen the Bifrost open,” says Hogun. Somehow, despite the Allfather’s orders to halt Bifrost travel, the Warriors Three are already waiting in the meadow that they have landed in. Their wounds have been tended and all are smiling.

Loki wonders what game Heimdell is playing at. Surely he knows that the Warriors Three would not withhold themselves from participating in Sif’s rescue. Allowing them to leave Asgard guaranteed that they would find their way to Thor.

“Well, except for when we came tumbling out,” says Fandral. “Volstagg caused a minor earthquake.”

“And yet I was the one who landed on my feet and you on your belly,” says Volstagg mildly. “So where next, princes? Or has the Allfather forbidden our aid?”

Something in Loki sinks at the thought of the Three accompanying them. Sif does not require their help. But Thor will never turn down help from his friends, particularly in this regard.

And, really, he should be grateful for the extra eyes.

So Loki only sighs. “It will be a great strain on my magic, lugging your girth all over the Nine Realms.”

“Six,” corrects Hogun. “Not on Asgard. Not in Vanaheim. If she fell back to Jotunheim, Heimdell would not send us on a fool’s errand.”

He looks only at Loki. His gaze is steady and hard.

Loki turns away.

“We want our shield sister restored to us too, you know,” says Fandral.

“My friends, I knew you would not hesitate to join our cause.” Thor grins and grasps Loki’s shoulder. “However, for now, we follow my brother’s lead. He holds the most skill in navigating paths down Yggdrasil that we couldn’t have dreamed.”

“But of course,” booms Volstagg, clapping Loki hard on the back, so that he nearly stumbles. “Wherever you go, we will follow.”

“We are at your mercy,” says Fandral, with an affected bow. Loki spares a moment to scowl especially at him until he straightens again. It makes him feel a little better.

“Then let us not waste any time,” says Loki. “Gentlemen, follow me.”

\--

When Darcy comes in the next morning, Sif is already awake and following Jane around the lab. Jane talks a mile a minute while Sif looks around, at the machines, the data, the pictures.

“You are looking for our Bifrost,” Sif is saying. “The bridge between the worlds.” She points at a couple of the pictures Darcy pinned up the day before. “Here you can see where the portal was opened.”

Jane looks like she’s about ready to combust from pure happiness.

“What do you know about it?” she asks, in a tone that is trying to be casual, but her notebook is open and her pen poised in such a way that Darcy is certain means trouble.

“It works,” says Sif, shrugging. She is clearly trying hard not to smile. “My brother sees what is happening in all of the realms, and he is in charge of travel between them.” She hesitates, looking down at her hands. “Though he does not see everything. Before we left, three Jotun managed to enter Asgard without his knowledge. He would be particularly vigilant now.” She gives herself a little shake, as if clearing her head, and looks back at Jane. “I’m afraid I cannot explain more in regards to the technicalities of our travel. I was never much of a scholar.”

Jane pats her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. We have our readings. We’ll figure it out.”

“Meanwhile,” Darcy cuts in. “We should probably get some breakfast. Izzy’s is always good. Do they have coffee on Asgard?”

\--

As it turns out, they do not have coffee on Asgard.

Sif likes it anyway.

Unfortunately, her way of asking for more involves smashing the mug on the floor.

“Is this an Asgardian thing?” asks Darcy, bending over in her seat with her napkin to help Jane gather up the shattered pieces of the poor mug. Even after the whole bench-pressing-a-truck stunt, Darcy wasn’t too sure that the alien thing wasn’t just some elaborate prank. Now she’s wondering.

“What do you mean?” asks Sif, mouth full of pancakes.

“On Earth we have a limited supply of cups,” says Jane. “Just ask Izzy next time.”

 


	2. Part II

By the end of the breakfast, Sif proves herself to be wickedly funny, utterly unself-conscious and even if she’s not an alien, will probably be an incredibly diverting guest. More than a few of the other patrons are sneaking looks; though Darcy’s pretty sure they are also terrified. She doesn’t blame them. Sif is _vibrant_.

And…in desperate need of new clothing.

She is dressed in the tunic and leggings she wore under her armor, but Darcy can still see the rust-colored stains splashed across the hem, and well…

Puente Antiguo is a small town. People talk. They like her and Jane just fine, but a crazy tall warrior chick might be pushing it.

Jane agrees with Darcy, but only because she wants to make sure that the fact she’s harboring an alien stays as secret as possible. Jane also has instruments to recalibrate and very little patience for shopping, so Darcy gets the job (and the credit card). Jane only pauses long enough to warn Darcy not to lose Sif (as if she _could_ ) before dragging Erik back to the lab.

For a crazy warrior alien chick, Sif is surprisingly willing to duck into the only two boutiques in town and let Darcy pick out clothes for her to wear.

However, she still has opinions. She likes sturdy fabrics, and while she admires some of the finer lace and silk shirts Darcy shows her, refuses to try them on.

“Those are _undergarments_ ,” says Sif, scrunching up the top and dropping it back on the display table.

“They are _not_ undergarments. They are pretty and it’s _hot_ outside.”

“Neither you nor the Lady Jane wear such attire. Why would I?” Sif picks out a ribbed tank top, running a thumb over the fabric.

“Because they would look good on you. Go easy on me, I’m just guessing here. I don’t know what you like to wear.”

Sif tosses the tank top at her. “This is comfortable. More like them would suffice.” She rubs the material of one of the thin blouses Darcy pointed out to her. “In Asgard, clothing this sheer is not meant for public display.”

“What about in private?” asks Darcy, waggling her eyebrows.

Sif looks amused, the line of her mouth slanting up into a smirk.

“Everything has its place,” she says, with a faint lilt to her tone, which is answer enough for Darcy. “These are attractive, but I do not see any need for them.”

“Fine,” says Darcy, putting the top away and nabbing a red one for herself. “Now, uh, would you happen to know your cup size?”

\--

“I can get you home,” Jane announces when they step through the door. The whiteboard behind her is a rainbow of equations.

Darcy starts unloading the shopping bags off of Sif, who is currently wearing her new workout clothes and looks ready to kick her way through a Tarantino film.

“Oh, really? How are you going to do that?” she asks for Sif’s benefit, because if this is one of Jane’s brainstorming sessions and not an actual _plan_ , she wants it out of the way _now_.

Luckily, it seems to be the latter.

“I can’t build a bridge to Asgard, obviously,” says Jane. “But there might be a way to send out a signal that might be able to reach it; see if your brother can’t find his way back to _you_.”

“It is not my brother who needs a signal. Heimdell sees all Nine Realms.”

“Well, it can’t hurt,” Jane insists. She’s so keyed up she’s _vibrating_. “The readings we got on the last few occurrences might be enough that we can figure something out.”

“Am I going to have to write a grant for this?” asks Darcy. “Asgard is a few million lightyears away from us. Pretty sure we’re going to need a whole different level of equipment.”

“Actually,” says Jane. “We can probably use what we have right here.”

She waves her hands about vaguely, presumably to encompass the entire lab.

Darcy is lost.

“Since when do we have the right equipment to contact aliens?”

“As soon as we realized they exist.” Jane doesn’t skip a beat, already returning to her computer and whatever programs she abandoned in favor of her whiteboard.

“I think she’s gonna do this anyway,” Darcy says to Sif. “Sorry. The second she discovered that aliens exist, of course she’s going to go bananas.”

Sif just looks at her. “You both are being very kind,” she says. She sounds…almost surprised. “Thank you. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

“Um, you’re welcome?” Darcy blinks, thrown by the sincerity. “You don’t _really_ need to thank us. Jane would build her own Einstein-Rosen bridge to Asgard if she could, trust me. I’m not sure she isn’t planning it right in front of us.”

She wanders to the kitchen, away from the humming machines. Sif follows.

“It is certainly a task worthy of gods,” says Sif, with great solemnity. Her brow furrows. “But if that were the case, why would she hide her ambitions?”

“Try writing a grant on that,” says Darcy. “And people think Jane is kind of weird. Even at Culver, and we’re, like, _the_ place for mad scientists.”

Sif’s face hardens and she turns and looks at Jane with something else on her face. “I know something of that feeling. To be passionate is not a weakness. A…failing, perhaps, if left unchecked. But never a weakness.”

Darcy nods. “I’m with you there. And Jane’s tough enough to keep going. I pick up the slack with my liberal arts people skills. And Erik helps her keep her theories in this nice zone where people don’t immediately dismiss them when she sends them grant applications. Well, not that she isn’t persuasive,” she amends. “But Jane dreams big. Erik keeps them grant-sized.”

“Erik?”

“Dr. Selvig.” Darcy realizes that since Sif has been here, Erik does not seem to have been hanging out in the same space very much. He has a room at the best motel in the town, which isn’t that fabulous. She’s not too worried. He’ll come around again. He’s a strange old man, but a nice one.

\--

 “Welcome to Ria,” says Loki sourly, not bothering to warn the others that they will materialize in the center of a shallow lake. The yells of exasperation and surprise behind him are soothing.

There is something distinctly trying about traveling the dark pathways with companions. Loki is forcibly reminded of just some of the reasons he never told Thor or the Warriors Three of these places. They squabble like children in the dark, to the extent that he almost worries that he will intentionally lose them on this path for the safety of his own sanity.

“Loki, that was hardly sporting,” says Thor, good-naturedly stern. He puts Volstagg’s arm over his shoulder and pulls. With a loud sucking sound, Volstagg is released.

Fandral, the lightest of them, is already at the shore, shucking off his boots and socks. “Loki, why didn’t you warn us? You know I cannot stand wet socks. Isn’t that one of the first things I told you about myself?”

“You have made your opinion on the matter very clear.”

Fandral just shakes his head. “The next time we are bothering you, Loki, just say so.”

Loki, suppressing a smile, makes his own way to shore, hovering a couple inches over the water. Hogun, who landed in the shallowest part of the lake, is shaking off his boots.

“Where in Ria did we land?” he asks, examining his mace for any water damage.

“The southern continent,” says Loki. He looks around. The sandy beach is warm and pleasant, surrounded by tall, mauve trees. “I believe Thor, Sif and I once played here as children. We fought mock battles with the local chieftain’s offspring.”

“I pity the other children,” says Hogun.

“You should pity me,” grumbles Volstagg, looking down at his muddy trousers in distaste. “I had to watch you all.”

“We were a pleasure,” says Loki. “I have no idea what you are speaking of.”

Thor laughs outright. The comment earns Loki a cuff to the shoulder from Volstagg that sends him stumbling.

“Another question, then.” Volstagg turns to Thor. “Where do we begin searching for Sif?”

Loki grimaces, his amusement fading. Of course, Thor remains the leader.

_Are you so surprised? This is, after all,_ Thor’s _quest_. A soft voice reminds him. He acknowledges it only grudgingly.

Thor looks thoughtful. “The northern continents have more advanced technology. There are villages here that might remember her name. Unless…Loki, would you be able to tell if she is here.”

Loki shakes his head. The picture of Sif is clear, but he doubts any divining spell would alert him to her presence. “To be honest, Thor—”

Fandral rolls his eyes. Loki pauses to glare at him before continuing.

“I do not think that I will be able to find her by magic alone. Whatever rules Heimdell has lain—”

“You think Heimdell would be responsible for this?” demands Volstagg. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“I did not say that I believe him responsible. However, Odin’s decree means that there will be nothing easy about finding Sif. Ironic, of course, considering that she is the best tracker of us all.”

“Well, let us not waste any time,” says Thor. He stands. “Do you remember the villages where we used to play, Loki?”

“They are not far off from here.”

“Then we will begin there.”

Once everyone’s clothes have dried adequately, they set off. Thor is the one to lead.

\--

It becomes abundantly clear that without Sif, their group is somewhat…unbalanced.

It is not that Sif always agreed with Loki. But Sif, unlike the Warriors Three, has grown up knowing Thor in the same way Loki has, and does not hesitate to question him.

For instance, Sif would not have been so foolish as to nearly lead them in the middle of a tribal war.

The dragon’s nest is an unpleasant surprise for all of them, and so Loki can hardly blame Thor for not recognizing the shed scales and scent of burning meat.

But they exhaust Ria, and the news of Sif is nowhere to be heard. Still, the chieftain of the area where they are currently searching remembers Sif clearly—as well as their aid in bringing down a massive boar, and offers them food and shelter while they scout.

“Where next?” asks Volstagg, swallowing a mouthful of golden ale. Again, Loki notes, this question was directed towards Thor, even though he would not be the one to know the way between worlds.

“It depends on the pathways between the Realms exist here,” says Thor. “Not every realm has eight paths, one to the remaining realm. Is this not true, Loki?”

“As far as I have understood, Thor,” Loki responds. “Some realms are more open to each other than others. There are several means of reaching Midgard through the Asgard palace, which would not be available for Vanaheim.”

“Ah, yes, Midgard. Perhaps that is where we ought to continue our search,” says Thor.

Loki shakes his head. “I disagree. Sif has nothing to fear from the Midgardians. We should place greater priority on places where we have faced danger before.”

“We have faced dangers on Midgard before.”

“In the old days. Anyone who looks at Midgard now can see that it is developing without being besieged by monsters every other century. Sif has her sword and her armor. Nothing there will harm her.

“Which is why we should go to Midgard first,” insists Thor. “It will be easy to scour the world for signs of Sif, and move on to realms of greater concern.”

“Which is why we shouldn’t. Sif is in more immediate danger if she is in a different realm.”

“I agree with Loki,” says Hogun, to Loki’s surprise. “Our priority is Sif’s safety, which is not threatened on Midgard the way it would be elsewhere.”

Thor does not look quite at ease. He turns to Fandral and Volstagg. “Any other voices?”

“Scope the dangerous realms first,” says Fandral. “Have adventures and when Sif scowls at us for taking so long, take her to the local tavern and spin our tales, so that she is so amused she forgets her wrath.”

“You are assuming that she wouldn’t strike first before you could even begin one of your adventures,” says Volstagg. “Either path would be wise. Our main concern is finding her sound.”

Thor heaves a sigh. “We’ll go with your expertise, Loki.” He raises his tankard, smiling. “Keep on leading us, brother!”

“Just not into another mud pit,” says Volstagg.

“I will do my best,” says Loki.

\--

It takes a full day before Erik comes to talk, actually _talk_ , to Sif.

“Sif? Are you in here?” Erik’s voice drifts through from the back of the lab.

“In the kitchen,” Darcy calls back. She and Sif are sitting at the dining table, sharing earbuds and a laptop. Jane kicked them out of the lab so she could concentrate on something. She was surrounded by what looked like bits of radio and duct tape and muttering to herself, so Darcy didn’t protest.

Sif twists around in her seat as Erik comes into view, and Darcy hits ‘pause’ on the screen, freezing _Xena: Warrior Princess,_ which she introduced to Sif as a joke, but now they’re both sucked in.

“Do you need something, Dr Selvig?” asks Sif. She is unerringly polite around him. Darcy wishes Erik would get over his little snit and they could exchange stories about Norway, or something.

“I don’t need you for anything, but I do have something I would like to show you, if you have the time.” Erik holds a book in both hands. He lifts it upright, so that they both can see the title in curling gold letters: _Norse Mythology_.

“Hearing you talk, it reminded me of a few of my childhood stories. I found this at the library in town. Your name comes up in quite a few of them.”

Sif reaches out to take the book, flipping through, and laughs in delight upon coming across a hooked figure in a horned helmet.

“Poor Loki, that helmet follows him everywhere,” she says with affection. Her eyes briefly scan the text across the page, lips moving as she reads. “Where am I in this book?”

“I bookmarked it with the ribbon.”

Sif nods and turns the pages, revealing the illustration of a woman with floor-length blonde hair and a pale dress. Sif’s expression seems still, though both eyebrows have gone up.

“That does not look like you,” says Darcy.

“Well, that’s the thing,” says Erik. “We seem to have gotten a few of the details wrong, about who you are, and what you are. Here, Sif is the goddess of grain.”

Sif’s face relaxes. She does not look offended. Instead, she laughs merrily. “That is nothing I have heard before. I can’t imagine how I would be imagined as a harvest deity, unless, instead of raining blood my sword scattered seeds.” She cocks her head to the side. “Actually, we might have had an adventure like that. Certainly, it is not past our abilities. What else do they say about me?”

“Not much,” says Darcy, peering over Sif’s shoulder. “They didn’t even get your hair right.”

“Do not fear, Darcy; that is no mistake. My hair was, indeed, golden once.”

“Really?”

Sif nods. “Yes. My hair was golden and hung in curls to my waist. But Loki cut it off while I slept and it grew back dark as night.” She plays with the end of her ponytail, twirling the strands between her fingertips. “In some ways, I am fonder of it. I was not, however, when he cut it. Loki feared me for months afterwards.”

“That’s a really shitty thing to do.” Darcy cuts in. “I hope you made him pay for it.”

Sif nods. “It was. And I did. Even Thor didn’t dare to tease me, as he might have.”

Erik’s brow furrows. “You were children when your hair was cut?”

Sif arches a brow, amused. “When else could Loki pull such a trick? Any older, and I was much too skilled a warrior for him to dare try.”

“Nothing. It’s just a surprise to hear a different tale.”

Sif raises her eyebrows. “Loki’s prank merits a tale on Midgard? It was hardly grand.”

“I suppose not. But in the tale I read, the tale in this book, you are fully grown and married.”

Sif looks shocked. “ _Married?_ I am not married.” She scans the text closely and goes still.

Darcy cranes to take a closer look, but Sif shifts away from her. She looks to Erik instead.

“Who is she married to?”

“Thor, god of thunder,” says Erik.

Darcy laughs, and gently knuckles Sif’s shoulder. “Go Sif!”

But Sif isn’t laughing. Her breathing is even, but her skin is reddening, as though going into a temper.

“This is wrong,” she says. Firmly. “Thor is my closest friend, but he is not by any stretch, my husband.”

Her voice, when she speaks again, has an edge like steel.

“Are all the tales about us like these?” she asks, and it suddenly seems like a very important question.

Darcy has to hand it to Erik: he doesn’t run away screaming, which is kind of what she wants to do.

Instead he just takes a deep breath and answers.

“In the stories I read,” says Erik, very carefully, “I have always heard of you spoken as the wife of Thor.”

Sif’s jaw clenches in such a way that Darcy can see the muscles ripple.

“I cannot imagine how I could have been so misunderstood,” says Sif stiffly. She turns sharply back to Darcy. “Would your computer have information of these myths?”

All too aware of Sif’s burning gaze, she opens a new search engine, praying that somehow, somewhere, someone will have gotten it right.

The good news: the internet has limitless interpretations of the Norse gods.

The bad news: the consensus seems to be that Sif’s primary identity is that of Thor’s wife.”

Sif is seething. She doesn’t say anything while Darcy scrolls through page after page of profiles, but the fury radiating off of her is nearly ready to manifest as something physical. She shoves herself out of the chair and stalks out of the room after Darcy comes across the nugget that her son, Ullr, might have been fathered by frost giants.

“I think we just destroyed her opinion of Midgard,” Darcy says to Erik. Erik just sighs and sits heavily in the chair Sif just abandoned. He doesn’t look guilty, but tired.

“I didn’t mean to anger her.”

Darcy just pats him on the arm.

“I know.”

\--

Jane favors the roof when she needs to make sense of her own work. After nearly seven hours of data crunching, she’s ready to take a break and enjoy the sunset for a little bit.

Doesn’t mean she’ll stop thinking about particle data, but at the very least her eyes will get a respite.

She’s surprised, however, to find Sif on the rooftop already. The warrior has her elbows braced on her knees, head in hands. She looks up before Jane can retreat.

Jane gives an awkward little wave. “Hey, Sif. Uh, didn’t know you were up here, I’ll just leave now—”

“Do not trouble yourself, Jane Foster,” says Sif, smiling faintly. “Please, come up. I don’t mind the company.”

Jane hesitates on the ladder. “Are you sure? You looked like you wanted to be alone.”

“I did, and I have been alone for a while now. Your company would be a pleasant change.”

Jane steps onto the roof and makes her way to the other lawn chair. Once settled down by the firepit, she glances over at Sif. Her face still looks tense. Frustrated.

“Is everything all right?” Jane asks, for lack of anything else to say. Oh, she’s _terrible_ at this.

“I wish I could say that it was. I am being foolish, Jane.”

“How?”

Sif heaves a deep sigh. “Your friend, Erik, was kind enough to bring me a book of children’s tales about the Aesir.”

“Aesir?”

Sif smiles. “The stories ancient humans wrote about us, passed down over the centuries until we became gods.”

“I see.”

A pause.

“I take it you were in this book.”

Sif nods, not looking at Jane.

“Ohhh boy. What did we get wrong?”

Sif gives a quiet laugh. “Many of our stories have been greatly exaggerated over time. I am not entirely surprised, but there were a few beliefs held by your people that are not correct. The one I speak of in particular, states that I am married to Thor.”

“Thor. Right. Um,” Jane struggles for a second. “…So you’re not married to Thor?”

“No. Nor would I ever wish to be married to Thor, he is impossible,” scoffs Sif. She quiets, then.

“Unfortunately, much of Asgard does not consider such a match as outside the realm of possibility. I am not the only lady warrior in Asgard, Jane, but I was the first. There were many who doubted me. Even after I showed that I could fight as fiercely as even their first prince, they created other reasons for my success.”

Jane is silent. This story seems surprisingly familiar to her.

“They assumed Thor had influence on your reputation.”

“They did. Even now, after all these years, rumors abound that my success had more to do with the princes as my childhood friends. Jane, in other realms I am known as the goddess of war.”

The scrape of sneakers on metal can be heard in the pauses between Sif’s words. Darcy, it seems, plans on joining them.

“But here, not one of my exploits attributed to my name!” Sif groans. “Perhaps this is foolish of me. My name brings whole tribes to their knees elsewhere. I do not know how the truth was twisted here.”

“It is only human to err,” says Jane, so ruefully that she startles a laugh out of Sif. She scoots over on her chair so that Darcy can come and curl up beside her, throwing a blanket over both their bodies as protection against the growing chill in the air. The sky is streaked with pink and orange.

“Still, I have performed great deeds on Midgard. To whom did they go instead, I wonder? Better than having them interpreted as some grand scheme to entice Thor to my bed.” She scuffs the concrete idly with her sneakers. “Now _there’s_ a rumor alive and festering in Asgard.”

Jane pulls a face. “I’m sorry. But…he’s your friend, right? Does he know about it?”

“He does, though all it means is that those who believe it do not speak of it in his presence. He is one of my dearest friends and a fine warrior. I will be happy to call him king. But am I in love? Hardly. He supported my stand as a shieldmaiden, and thus half the realm thinks me sick with love for him.”

There is a comfortable silence, even with the bitterness of Sif’s sentiment.

“That’s happened to me,” says Jane. “My dad was an astrophysicist at Cambridge. He was really smart—never upended the world as we know it, but he did good work and was respected.

“Then there’s me. Whenever I talk to people about astrophysics, they assume that the only reason I have accomplished as much as I have is because of his connections. Nothing to do with my own interests, of course. And when they aren’t making assumptions, they’re blasting me for being too focused on science fiction. My dad exposed me to astrophysics—he encouraged me, he was very important to my career—I will never deny it. But we are different. I study a completely different phenomena and I got to where I am all by myself. But for some of my colleagues, it always comes back to him.”

When she dares look at Sif again, she is startled by the tenderness on the other woman’s face.

“And you are right, Jane Foster,” says Sif. “When you can open a bridge to Asgard, as you say you can, I will ensure that the whole Nine Realms shall know your name.”

Jane laughs. “I’ll certainly try. Just ask your brother for a warning before he opens up the Bifrost. And bring back books next time.”

“I do not know if the Alltongue would work on writing, but I will see what I can do,” says Sif. She turns to Darcy. “What would you want from Asgard, Darcy?”

“A sword like yours would be cool.”

“No,” says Jane. Sif snickers, turning her face away from Darcy.

“She asked.”

They stay out until the air has cooled and the sky is hung with stars.

\--

They visit the realm of the Dark Elves only briefly. There is no life there they can see, no matter where in the realm they appear and they leave just as quickly, unsettled. Even Loki cannot conceal his disquiet.

Loki brings them to Nidavellir, to the valley where they have quested many times. They set up camp in a comfortable site, and eat provisions carried from Vanaheim but not yet consumed. There is little to be merry about, and so they retire early.

All save Loki.

Something about Svartalfheim makes him feel off. The dead, black landscape stirs something within him, makes his skin itch. The residue of elvish magic, perhaps.

It makes him remember the spells over his skin. Makes the mystery unbearable.

The magic is there. He has never noticed it before. Never realized that it was not quite his own. A study in familiarity he supposes. The spells are simply there, marbling his skin. His mother’s familiar golden magic and…his father’s. He has never seen them work spells in tandem. So potent—how could anyone have missed it?

When Thor and the others are asleep in their tents, he sits in the darkness and meditates. He has his own magic; perhaps he can counteract the spells himself.

Once he has focused, it is all too simple. He feels the disguise melt away. Feels a sudden coolness. He looks down at his hands, at the faint patterns raised on his skin. Skin that is blue and cold and leathery to the touch.

He flinches, and that’s all it takes. His skin flushes pink again and the familiar coloring reasserts itself.

He wonders if they knew. Those Jotun who listened to his offer. Did they hear of his name, know that he was once one of their own?

Did they also look down upon him?

It is a vile thought.

He concentrates, and again his skin turns blue. He rubs his hands together, feeling the strangeness of his own skin. He passes his hands over his face, feels the strangeness of the ridges along his cheekbones and his forehead. He creates a mirror, hanging in the air before him, and a small green flame.

A reptilian face looks back at him. Even its scarlet eyes look painfully familiar, rather than strange.

He unsheathes the knife he keeps in his boot, draws up his sleeve, and cuts.

The blood that wells out is as red as ever—at least his insides have not been as altered as his appearance. He can hear his heartbeat, the blood pounding through his veins.

_Jotun hearts are made of ice._

He puts the knife away.

He is a Jotun. No illusion was cast upon him in Jotunheim. He is not cursed.

He was born a monster, he did not become one.

What to do with that knowledge is another question.

But perhaps…

It does not matter.

The ground is turning to ice around him—it has been a long time since he has lost control.

_I am Loki Odinson. I am a monster of Jotunheim. I am Loki Odinson—_

Odin.

Odin was the one to cast the spell, Loki is certain of it. He will have an explanation.

_You chose to find Sif first. Do not let this control you. Do not prove that you allow emotions to control you._

Loki breathes, deeply and quietly. The ice melts. The illusion is almost comforting as it regains hold of him.

No, he will not let his emotions rule him. Not the way Thor does.

Though…Thor has been acquitting himself remarkably well on this trip. Better than he might have hoped. Somehow, the anger, the resentment Loki has felt throughout the weeks and months leading up to the coronation is beginning to be soothed. It is almost enough for him to feel regret for letting in the Jotun.

At least at first.

Nidavellir is large and unwieldy, and though Loki can sense nothing of Sif’s presence, Thor insists on exploring the terrain anyways.

“This was a favorite haunt of Sif’s,” he says. “There were villages here she swore to protect, and I believe a cave where she kept her prizes.”

“Do not think that I don’t know, Brother,” says Loki, sweeping past Thor. “In fact, I might go as far as to suggest that _I_ will be more helpful in this regard—I have seen the sanctuary that she kept. Better yet, I can lead us there.”

“Oh really?” says Thor, easily catching up to Loki, regarding him with eyebrows raised. “I was not aware that you accompanied Sif on her adventures, Loki.”

“No more than you did, Brother. I was just better at keeping secrets.” There is a savage satisfaction, in knowing something about Sif that Thor does not. So many in Asgard believe them alike in soul and thought—Loki wonders if they realize how sly Sif can be, to maintain her appearance as a defender of Asgard. This slyness that leads her not only to slay dragons and carry out sacred tasks for the Allfather, but to keep peace in villages—to hide her going ons without ever explicitly having to hide.

He knows Sif in a way Thor never will.

The trouble starts when he is arguing with Thor over directions and they accidentally intrude upon a giant’s territory. The giant is a lord of this realm in his own right, with plenty of farms and mills under his name. He stands nearly twelve feet tall, bulging with muscle, his face deformed.

“This is not your land,” he tells them, in a voice that scrapes like gravel. “Asgardians are not welcome here. Leave us.”

“We do not come to skirmish with you, Lord,” says Thor. “We wish to know if our comrade has come under your hospitality. Surely, tales of her exploits would have reached you. She is called the Lady Sif, Shieldmaiden of Asgard, revered throughout the realms.”

“Nicely spoken,” Loki murmurs, impressed despite himself.

However, the giant is unmoved.

“We do not welcome Asgardians here,” rumbles the giant, stepping forwards so that the ground shakes. “Leave us.”

“If you would listen, you deaf brute—” growls Thor.

“Thor, do not let your anger control you!” Loki grabs for Thor, only to be shaken off.

“Leave!”

“Do not speak to us as though we were children to be ordered about!” Then Thor becomes aggressive again, and goes so far as to brandish Mjolnir at the giant. Loki does not think Thor even had any intentions of using the hammer—it was an unconscious action.

But that does not stop the giant from reaching forward and sweeping Thor aside. Mjolnir spins from his grasp and lands at the giant’s feet.

The giant bends down and grasps the handle.

Somehow, there is a giant on this realm worthy of Mjolnir. For the life of him, Loki will never understand how that blasted hammer works. Why can he not lift it, but some strange lord of this realm can heft it with ease?

_Built for noble hearts, not Jotuns_ , whispers the cold little voice in the back of his mind. Loki ignores it. There are more pressing concerns at hand. Such as the fact that a random giant has gotten Mjolnir and won’t give it back.

What’s even worse is that the wretched creature doesn’t even know that it is Mjolnir he’s holding at first. When he learns of Thor’s identity, he positively crows with delight, realizing the weight of his prize.

“You want this back so badly, young prince?” he asks, swinging Mjolnir so that it screeches instead of sings. “Then we must make an equal exchange. As the prince of the realm, you doubtless know of the fair Freyja?”

“Of course, my lord,” says Loki, stepping forward. Thor is too shocked to contest him.

The giant nods, pleased. “In these lands, she is known as the most beautiful woman in all the Nine Realms.”

Fandral makes a muttered comment under his breath. Volstagg responds by gripping him around the neck and refusing to let go.

“High praise indeed,” says Loki. “Considering that she has never stepped foot outside of Asgard.”

The giant nods. “Then we shall have an understanding. Bring me the woman Freyja as my bride, and you shall have Mjolnir once again.”

There is a choked cry from Fandral. The giant glances briefly at him, before his gaze rests on Loki once again.

Loki looks to Thor. He says nothing, but he nods stiffly to Loki.

“An exchange there will be, my lord,” Loki ministers to the giant.

The giant grins, and retreats back into his mountain, leaving the coalition stunned.

Hogun is the one to make the suggestion to head back to camp. They do so in silence, until they are safely ensconced within the mountain cave, Loki’s wards alive.

Loki turns on Thor.

“You have outdone yourself this time, Thor! Broken a centuries old truce, lost Sif, and now as good as bartered away Freyja. All in a span of less than a week.”

“I made no promises,” says Thor through gritted teeth. “ _You_ made no promises to him. We only need to face him honorably in combat, and he will fall before us.”

“Well, seeing that Father has explicitly forbidden the use of force and that he is immune to magic, I believe you are out of luck.”

“Well, do you have any suggestions, Loki Silvertongue?” asks Fandral. “Shall we sing to him a pretty love song?”

“I wouldn’t wish your singing on a dying cat. But actually, I do have a plan that will not involve Freyja, for all of our sakes. But, it does provide a bride.”

Thor’s eyebrows rise. “Why am I worried?”

“Oh, you will not like it at all, my most perceptive brother.”

“Try me.”

Loki tells him.

Thor does not like it.

\--

Even after they return to the garage, the warm and fuzzy feelings linger in Darcy, as well as a feeling that sharing hour is not over.

“There’s a bar not too far from here,” she says. “It’s kind of old-timey, but the beer isn’t too bad. Plus, I’ll bet you also know a lot of good drinking songs.”

Sif perks up just at ‘beer’, and Darcy knows she’s made the right move.

In unison, they turn to Jane.

“No thank you,” she says without even looking at them, seated and her eyes already glued to her computer screen.

“Jane,” says Darcy. “It’s _one_ night.”

“I have _work_. You two go have fun. Don’t break anything and call me when you’re too drunk to walk home.”

Darcy and Sif look at each other.

“Allow me,” says Sif. She reaches over and picks Jane bodily out of the chair.

“Your work is worthy, but you are tense,” Sif informs Jane as she carries her out of the lab, over the shrieks of protest. “In Asgard, we boast about our latest exploits before we set off anew, our minds clear and set to begin again. You appear to have neglected this.”

“I don’t have to boast, I have to _work_. Put me down!”

“One evening,” says Sif. “Do you not already have all the materials you need?”

Jane fumes, but nods.

“Then they will keep until tomorrow,” says Sif. “Please, join us.”

Darcy thanks Heimdell for forgetting his sister on Earth. It’s the best thing that could have happened for Jane.

Jane groans and Darcy knows they’ve won.

“ _Fine_. But I’m _not_ staying out all night.”

They doll up. Jane digs out a nice black dress shot through with violet, and Darcy pulls out her favorite red skirt and a pair of sky high stilettos that might put her at eye level with Sif. Jane stubbornly insists on her pumps instead. Sif needs some assistance figuring out all of the different brushes Darcy keeps on hand, but acquits herself very well for an alien.

Long story short: they don’t pay for their own drinks, Sif gets into three fights (one in defense of Jane’s honor and two more for the hell of it) and they have to call Selvig to pick them up.

Even Jane has to admit that it was a lot of fun.

At least she will, once her massive hangover fades away.

\--

“Not a word,” growls Thor.

“Of course not,” says Loki, straightfaced. Behind him Fandral is choking on his laughter, Volstagg is hardly better, and Hogun is at his blankest. “You must not speak if you are to pull this off convincingly. But, Brother, I say this with deepest sincerity. I have never seen a more beautiful bride.”

Thor glowers through his ribbons.

\--

They don’t do much that Thursday.

Unfortunately, that’s also the day the feds show up.

All right, not ‘feds’, plural. More like _a_ fed. Not that it makes the situation better.

He is one of the most unassuming men that Darcy has ever seen. He looks a little like a toothless alligator. In a suit.

Darcy is the one to answer the door, because she’s the intern. She still has a bit of a hangover, but Jane is worse and Sif is making her a hangover cure in the kitchen and Erik doesn’t quite live here, so again, Darcy’s job.

“Can I help you?” she asks, in her best ‘I’m a professional’ voice. Unfortunately, she hasn’t quite gotten her balance back, and sways dangerously as she opens the door. She leans against the door and crosses her arms. At least, with all the light and windows, she has a legitimate reason for wearing dark sunglasses indoors.

“I’m here to see Dr. Foster,” says the man in the suit. She didn’t quite realize he was a fed yet. “My name is Phil Coulson. I represent SHIELD.”

“Never heard of it. Are you government?”

Phil Coulson just gives a tight smile. “In a matter of speaking. Dr. Selvig would know who we are—we have held dealings with colleagues of his. Where is Dr. Foster?”

There is strangled gargling from somewhere in the kitchen.

“Dr. Foster is unavailable at the moment,” says Darcy, with as much composure as she can muster. “May I take a message?”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” says Phil Coulson. He doesn’t move a muscle, hands still clasped in front of him. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m recovering,” corrects Darcy. “We had Thirsty Thursday a day early. Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid I must insist on seeing Dr. Foster. We need to discuss the woman you recently took in.”

The back of Darcy’s neck prickles, and she shifts her weight back so she is fully obstructing the doorway.

“Yeah, what about Sif?” She props her hands on her hips. “What do you want with her?”

“We would just like to ask her a few questions. That’s all.”

“For what?” Darcy demands. They haven’t gotten around to getting Sif a fake ID, though she’s been thinking about it. But—well, it hasn’t been an issue.

Maybe it should have been.

“What she did at the hospital, for instance,” he says. His tone doesn’t change. It is still completely bland. He no longer seems so harmless.

“She was a little freaked out,” says Darcy. “She got hit in the head pretty hard—anyone would be.”

“Most people can’t throw doctors through the wall.”

To Darcy’s infinite relief, that is the moment Jane chooses to arrive. She’s grimacing and her hair is a mess, but she has her game face on, like she’s ready to tear Coulson apart, and Darcy happily steps behind her.

“Can I help you?” she demands, without even asking who he is. She’s standing with her hands on her hips and somehow not looking like she drank twice her body weight last night.

Coulson, though his expression doesn’t change, doesn’t bother sweet talking. “I understand that you have an undocumented woman in your home, Dr. Foster?”

“I have a guest,” says Jane warily. “What’s it to you?”

“We just have a few questions. May I come in?”

Jane doesn’t move. “Sif is an associate of mine,” she says. “She just ran into an atmospheric disturbance I was studying by mistake. We’ve been conducting interviews.”

Coulson still didn’t move. “May I speak with her?”

“She’s busy. I’m afraid you’ll have to try again later.”

“That’s what your assistant said about you.”

Jane just looks at him.

“I’m going to go be sick now,” says Darcy, and hopes like hell Jane understands that she means ‘keep Sif as far from the windows as possible’. She rushes away.

Sif is in the garages, luckily enough, changing. Her answering smile upon seeing Darcy quickly changes to a frown.

“Darcy! Is something wrong?”

The room is too dark. Darcy remembers she’s wearing sunglasses and takes them off, blinking away spots.

“Uh, kind of,” whispers Darcy. “There’s some sort of agent guy asking for you, so you need to stay here until he’s gone.”

“What does he want?” Sif starts to reach for her blade. “Is he bothering you?”

“Only if he sees you. I’m sorry, but do you know what men in black are?”

“I do not.”

“Bad news for aliens, that’s what they are. Just stay here for now, Sif. _Please_.”

Sif’s hand tightens into a fist, but she withdraws her hand. She nods.

“If it will help.”

“Thank you.” Darcy scurries back to the front of the lab. Jane still bars the doorway.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Jane is saying. “But she’s really not available right now. If you give us your information, we’ll get her to call you back.”

Coulson doesn’t look like he believes them, though his face is still frustratingly blank. But he produces a card and extends it to Jane. She takes it, handling it with only the tips of her fingers, as though he’ll bug her through skin contact.

Darcy would not be surprised to find that is a thing. The guy gives her the heebie jeebies.

“I’ll be back if I don’t hear from you in the next couple of days,” he says, and leaves.

Neither woman speaks until the shiny black car (how hung over were they not to notice _that_ would be an excellent question) is naught but a speck in the distance.

\--

Evening is more subdued. Darcy’s hangover is mostly gone, but has only been replaced by the weight of the feds getting involved in this nice little bubble.

Erik and Jane are in the lab, working silently, communicating through notes and equations. Darcy thinks it’s a bit of a lost cause, since Agent Coulson probably works for somewhere that owns satellites that can read handwriting, and then all that effort is worthless. Though Jane knows that too, Darcy amends, watching her mentor meticulously feed everything through the shredder twice after scribbling the relevant bits into her notebook. Satellites have nothing on Jane’s handwriting.

After having the term ‘men in black’ explained to her, Sif is no longer in the mood for _Xena_ , though she claims that her eyes are burning from too long spent in front of a computer screen.

Instead, Sif pulls her sword out of the closet.

“I will be on the roof, if that will not be a problem,” she says. “I must practice my forms.”

“Oh, cool. Um, can I watch?”

Sif looks at her in surprise. Then, shakes her head and grins.

On the rooftop, donning the sports bra and shorts Darcy picked out for her, Sif goes through her forms. Her sword spins and thrusts in time with her movements, though not in the sort of stylized dramatics Darcy would expect. For all that Sif is tall and muscular; she keeps her body tight, her movements fierce and sharp but small.

Even though she knows Sif has complete control over her body, Darcy makes sure to sit well out of range of the sword. She flicks through songs on her iPod, trying to find one that will match the tempo of Sif’s movements.

What sort of music do they have on Asgard? The thought floats, unbidden, to the forefront of her thoughts.

She could just ask.

So Darcy does.

Sif’s forms slow, though they do not stop entirely.

“It would depend on what you consider music at all,” she says. “But yes, when in the dining halls, I would listen to music. Sometimes, in the streets, musicians might take their instruments and play. Loki—” she falters briefly. “My friend, Loki, he was more knowledgeable. He played the flute very well. I often listened when I was meant to be studying.”

Darcy scuffs her sneakers against the rooftop. “Did he ever play for you?”

Sif’s forms do not falter, but Darcy can tell that she’s avoiding Darcy’s gaze.

“There was a song he would play, from time to time. It was a particular favorite of mine. I do not think I ever told him, but he found out. How, he still has not told me. Any time he could, he would disrupt my focus by playing that song in my hearing.”

“That’s…pretty cute, actually. Nothing I’d expect from the God of Mischief. More…turning you into a frog as a joke. Like pulling pigtails.”

Sif laughs, pressing the hilt of her sword and letting it retract.

“He was never unsubtle, frustrating as it might be.”

Her next question might be out of line, but Darcy asks anyway.

“Were you together?”

Sif only smiles, but it’s wistful enough that Darcy takes it for a no.

“Would you like to learn these forms?” she asks.

“Hell yes,” says Darcy. “Um, you are going to go easy on me, right?”

“Within reason. Coddling leads to imprecision. Go, put on proper training clothes, and I will teach you.”

Darcy runs off.

\--

_Still don’t believe Sif is an alien?_ Jane writes on the whiteboard, angled away from the windows, in the kitchen.

_Personally, no_ , Erik responds, his marker squeaking. _I will admit it has become a more plausible theory after these last couple of days. I maintain that this is a useful thought experiment, entirely against my better judgment._

_I’ll make a believer of you yet,_ writes Jane. She wipes the board clean again and starts drawing up a new diagram, Erik following each angle with commentary.

\--

Thor will never wear a dress again. They do not suit him, no matter how well made, and if he must deal with one more of Fandral’s snide remarks about his maidenhood he may very well become a Berserker.

None of the Warriors Three accompany him to the giant’s castle—there is that relief. If only because Loki claims that they would give the game away—Volstagg’s poker face is too poor, while Fandral and Hogun’s are too perfect.

It especially rankles because, though Loki can transform their clothing as easily as sneezing, he insists that they must dress up.

“If I am going to be using considerable effort in hiding your bearded face, dear brother, I want to make sure I am spending as much power as possible hiding it, and not worrying about whether your skirt is swirling in the right direction.”

All this to preserve over his face an illusion of Freyja, and yet Loki also insists on a veil.

“I just want to ensure that we do not cause another war, Thor. Should my illusion falter, no one will see. Though perhaps it would not be so necessary if you shaved your beard…”

“No.”

His brother, at the very least, also dons a dress, ostensibly as Thor’s handmaiden, so Thor’s ruffled pride is soothed somewhat on that account. Still, he is fairly certain that Loki could have easily maintained such an illusion.

Still, there are ways to retaliate, especially when they are admitted into the giant’s castle, into the vast banquet hall where the wedding feast has already been set.

“I did not know such a beauty as could ever consume a whole ox,” says the giant. “Or one to drink two barrels of mead.”

“She has fasted all day in anticipation,” says Loki, all honeyed tones, while attempting to discreetly kick Thor under the table. Were they not in such dire straits, he would have been greatly amused.

When Mjolnir is laid in his lap again, it takes every last drop of willpower not to smash the castle to the ground. Instead, he grabs Loki by the sash around his waist, swings Mjolnir, and barrels them out and away from the castle.

He does not even bother to steer, and thus while they crash into the correct mountain, they are not in the planned rendezvous site. Once his head stops spinning, Thor sets to work tearing out ribbons and yanking off his silks. Loki also disposes of his own dress, wheezing in a manner more like laughter than breathlessness.

“I would prefer that this particular tale not be told in the banquet halls, Loki.”

“Of course, brother.”

“I mean it.”

“Whatever you say.”

With a final glower, they begin their long trek through the mountains, back towards their friends.

\--

Sif finds more and more to admire about these Midgardians the longer she is on Earth. Though the morning began as many other mornings have before, recovering from a drunken round of debauchery, they waste no time in getting back to work.

It takes Jane a day and a night to assemble the parts that, she believes, will help create a Great Communicator (so dubbed by Darcy, though Jane seems less than pleased by the name).

“We need to cannibalize one of these,” says Jane, looking in dismay over her equipment.

“Excuse me?” asks Sif, certain that the Alltongue is failing her.

“We can’t order out. I don’t want that Coulson guy to know any more about what we’re doing than he already does. Besides,” she adds, brightly. “I built this myself. I can do it again.”

Darcy looks unconvinced. “You sure?”

“I’m certain I need that part. Besides, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Sif still feels ill at ease, but does not push further.

It is not perfect the first time. Or the second. The third time, Jane kicks at the table leg in sheer frustration. Darcy is running around fetching materials because engineering is entirely out of her depth. Sif does heavy lifting, and holds steel sheets together to be duct taped.

“You do not need to destroy your own equipment to help me, Jane,” says Sif. “My friends are excellent trackers—you do not need to hurt your own work for my benefit.”

Jane pauses, and there is a metal click as she sets down her tweezers. She looks to Sif with an affectionate smile.

“This isn’t destruction, Sif, don’t worry. It’s something new. Something good. I can feel it. Besides,” she shrugs. “If it doesn’t work, well, that just means we’ll know a little bit more.”

Like, for instance, the duct tape is an unwise solution to their problem.

They spend three days working on the communicator, every step forward taking them two steps back. Sif burns with shame that she is causing them such trouble, though with every attempt she makes to allow them to call off the project is shouted down. She knows such technology to be considered primitive in Asgard. And yet she cannot contribute in helpful ways, her suggestions for materials met with blank face. More than anything, she finds she would like to put her sword through the device, which would help no one. She sublimates these urges by dragging Darcy to the rooftop to practice sparring, despite protests of aching muscles and bruises.

But they manage.

By afternoon on the third day, Sif is being called back into the workshop. Jane and Erik work feverishly on something smaller, less unwieldy. They grin, and laugh, and demand Sif and Darcy’s help in fetching materials and holding tools.

By nightfall, they have constructed a small box that shoots a beam of light straight through stars. Jane Foster says such a statement is not accurate, but Darcy insists that it is “basically light”.

They test the light out on the rooftop of the laboratory, watches as it does not quite illuminate its surroundings, but cuts a path straight through the heavens.

“This is totally a middle finger to that agent guy, isn’t it?” asks Darcy. She sounds impressed, though Sif cannot for the life of her understand that slang. The Alltongue is useful, but at times woefully incomprehensible.

“Only if they’re watching,” says Jane. Her tone suggests that she expects they are. “But, Sif, it looks like we have a pathway to Asgard. We’ll need to figure out how to send a message, though. Are there any codes Asgardians use? Anything that could tell your brother that you’re here?”

“He will see us,” says Sif. “He will know.” She does not add that he will know anyways—that he knows everything, with only the faintest concentration. That Loki, with his magic and secrets, and Thor, with his pure will, would never need a signal to find her. All she can find within herself is awe at her new friends that they would do something like this for her, and marvel that they can create so quickly, when she is so used to considering them as little more than infant creatures, not yet ready for anything but Asgard’s protection. “Again, thank you.”

“Well, wait until we get a response first,” says Jane. “In the meantime, want to help me build a bridge?”

Erik sighs. Darcy laughs. Sif just tips her head up, and looks for Asgard.


	3. Part III

“How far are we from our friends?” Thor asks Loki. His brother does not speak, but opens his hand before him. A green fire dances in Loki’s palm and bursts ahead of them and down the mountain, darting through trees. It leaves a flickering green trail.

Loki is quiet, watching until the spark is out of their sight completely, before turning to Thor. “We should best start hiking. It seems we missed them by over a thousand feet.”

The way down the mountain is slow and arduous, even with the green light of Loki’s magic guiding them. Under different circumstances, Thor might use Mjolnir, but the hammer is stubborn and unwilling to fly—drained after its time in the possession of the giant.

Their path is clear until twilight, when the line between sky and earth blurs, and the ground below them begins to rumble. Thor sees only a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye before he grabs Loki and throws them both to the side as the ground on which they stood only moments before crumbles, and a great beast shakes itself loose. Its great, horselike head weaves on a long, muscular neck that blends into a thick body with four clawed feet, its maw scarlet and lined with needle sharp teeth.

It is one of the most stunning dragons Thor has ever seen. A massive creature that could have filled half of the giant’s receiving hall, an icy blue that gleams even in the darkness. Its eyes are a livid crimson.

Of course, it breathes fire.

The brothers scramble to their feet.

“Since when are there dragons here?” yells Thor, throwing himself out of the way of a massive jet of flame. It barely touches him, but the heat conducts through his armor and the garment he wears underneath, searing his skin.

“How would I know, Thor? I never thought I would have to have an intimate knowledge of the dragons of all Nine Realms!” Loki is also forced to dodge the crashing tail. He is creating his illusions—there are several Lokis now, dancing about the dragon. Thor thinks the one just in front of the dragon to be his brother, but he is not certain.

It does not matter. All of the Lokis are in danger from the dragon’s thrashing, swiping limbs.

For a moment Thor thinks of Mjolnir, and brings it aloft, prepared to throw it against this opponent—

“Thor! _Don’t!_ ”

—but he swore he would use no force before he finds Sif again.

“What plan do you suggest then, Brother?” demands Thor.

Loki fades away from another slap to the ground by the tail—shaking the forest yet again.

“Get out of the way and I will show you!” he calls.

Before Thor can blink, there is only one Loki, and it is the one right in front of the dragon. The beast pauses, muscles still tensed under its skin. It lowers its great head until it is almost eye-to-eye with Loki. Crimson against blue.

Thor forces himself to remain frozen, not daring to move and risk upsetting Loki’s gambit.

Something in Loki’s face shifts, and his expression turns to stone. Green light wraps Loki’s hands, the words of some incomprehensible spell on his lips—

There is a horrible _ripping_ —

The dragon falls, cloven in two from throat to belly. Its entrails spill out in fetid ooze and Thor can see exposed sinew and bones. The beast is not only cut open, it’s skin is half-flayed.

Even worse, the creature is still alive. It wheezes, and Thor can see its lungs contract, even as destroyed as they are.

Then there is Loki, who walks up to it with a strange look in his eye. Loki, who likes things swift and short and silent, including pain and death. Instead, he is standing above the dragon’s head, watching it struggle. His knife flashes out, moves too quickly for Thor to see, but there is another anguished roar, and Thor sees that the eyes of the beast have been blinded.

They have slain beasts before—dangers that the besieged appealed to Asgard for their help, for safety and peace of mind. But they have never been cruel.

“Loki, put it out of its misery.”

Loki does not respond. He seems almost entranced by the sight in front of him.

Thor steps past Loki, until he is standing right next to the poor creature’s head, and brings Mjolnir down upon its skull.

He turns to face Loki.

“Why did you hesitate?”

“It was a fascinating creature,” says Loki, finally tearing his eyes away from the corpse, though he will not meet Thor’s eyes. “Come, we must keep going.”

He sets off.

Thor follows.

“Loki, we are not to use force. What were you doing?” He runs after his brother, moving around the body, rather than stepping over it.

“ _You_ are required not to use force, Brother. I have no such restraints. Come, this way was a favorite haunt of the Lady Sif’s. There was an irritating lindworm that needed to be taught a lesson every few decades or so.” Loki is picking his way through the rocky path with little difficulty, surefooted and direct.

This is not Loki. Loki with his tricks and silver tongue. Who always disdains direct combat when other means are available.

“Loki, this was unnecessary.”

Loki spares him a contemptuous glance. “Well, we didn’t have to destroy half of Jotunheim either.”

“Which is why I lost Sif in the first place!” Thor stumbles; the rocks are smaller and more loosely packed higher up the mountain. “Loki, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. I am helping you in your quest to prove that you are not the moron Father believes you to be. I am simply going about it in a more timely manner.”

Loki’s tone is too light, the way it is when something troubles him, when Thor forgot to include him in a game or someone has commented on his magic in his hearing.

“This is not right, Loki. It is unlike you to be so brutish.”

“Do not think of it as ‘brute force’. Think of it as…underutilized capacities. I think I have been too reliant on my illusions. Perhaps I should be considering more direct ways of engaging my enemies.”

“And what could have possibly brought about this change of heart?” demands Thor. “You were more than happy to create that farce to retrieve Mjolnir.”

“I am in favor of anything that makes you ridiculous, Thor.”

Closer, he can see that Loki looks drawn, his skin sallow.

“You are not well,” says Thor. “We should stop for the night. Send a sign to the others; let them know we’ll find them in the morning.”

“Since when do you make that call?” challenges Loki, finally stopping his trek. He turns sharply to face Thor, his face creased in harsh lines. “When are _you_ one to turn down a good bloodbath?”

Thor flinches, feeling the words rip and sting. But he presses onwards.

“When you are not like yourself. Loki, you have been strange these last few days. Is there something wrong?”

Loki only looks at him. There are shadows around his eyes Thor has not seen before.

“Nothing that isn’t as it was before.”

He sets off again.

Thor follows.

“That is not an answer, Loki!”

“It is enough,” says Loki in clipped tones.

“You are lying.”

To his confusion, Loki turns and grins at him, a horrible, sharp thing.

“I really am not,” he says simply, without gesture.

Loki may be the quicker of the two of them, but he underestimates Thor in this. He closes his grip around the shoulder of Loki’s tunic before he can flicker away and hauls him close.

“You are a trickster and at times unkind, but you have never been cruel. It is not your nature.”

“What would you know of my _nature_ , Thor,” Loki snarls, eyes flashing green, teeth bared. Thor can scarcely recognize him.

“I know my brother.”

Something horrible twists in Loki’s face.

“Don’t call me ‘brother’,” he spits. “Lies do not become you.”

Thor’s grip on Loki falters for but a moment.

He cannot—

“When have I ever lied to you?”

Loki’s grin vanishes.

“You have never been one for thinking so far ahead,” he agrees. “But you _have_ been lying. Every time you called me brother, it has been a lie.”

“Loki—”

“We are not brothers. Not equals in the eye of Odin. He lied to both of us, claiming that either of us could be king. But it was only ever you.”

There is a roar in Thor’s ears, nearly dislodging the words that fall from Loki’s lips. He cannot understand. Will not understand.

“You are mad, Loki. You are my brother, a prince of Asgard—”

“The prince of ruins. A child of Jotunheim.”

Thor stiffens. For even as he speaks, Loki is changing in front of his very eyes. His eyes bleed crimson; his pale skin deepens to blue.

Thor is so shocked his grip loosens on Loki’s collar, though he does not recoil. Later, he will be grateful for that small dignity. That one tendril of self-control. He could never forgive himself otherwise.

Loki watches him now, will not stop staring, madly, at Thor. Not the roiling, frothing madness of warriors or prophets, but the silent madness that hints at much worse.

“We are not brothers,” repeats Loki. There is something broken there. “We are not equals. You are the prince. I am the monster.”

“You are not—”

Thor stops. Cannot continue. How can he? Only a few days ago, he called them beasts. He’s had a lifetime of monsters.

“Oh, I am,” says the strange image that is Loki.

“Brother, if this is one of your tricks, it is not amusing.”

“No tricks, Prince.”

There is no mockery in the address and for that it is all the more infuriating.

“When have you ever called me a prince? I am your brother, Loki. We have always been brothers.”

“We are not.”

What happens next could only happen between brothers. That is what Thor will say later. That is what Loki, with that wry twist of the mouth but warmth in his eyes, will acquiesce is true.

Much later.

But what else could explain Thor _dropping Mjolnir_ , letting it fall to the wayside as he pushes forward, grabbing Loki roughly by the arms.

Loki, master of magic and tricks and deceptions…uses none of them. Instead, he fights back with fists and nails, clawing at Thor’s eyes and scratching his skin. It has been a long time since they have fought in this manner.

It isn’t a battle. Nothing so clean. They trade blows rather than words. The mountain is treacherous—they slide on loose gravel and dirt damp from the misty rain.

Loki tries to cast illusions from under him. But for once, Thor can see through them. They do not confuse or muddle his senses, as they have before. He sees Loki clearly, his bloodied lip and mad, glittering eyes.

Finally, he pins Loki, hand pressing his face into the dirt, arms trapped. His vision is blurring. As though he is close to tears.

All the fight goes out of him then. He relaxes his grip on Loki enough that his brother can speak, though he is not so trusting as to release him.

“Brother, what are we doing?”

“Arguing the point,” says Loki acidly. “I am not your brother.”

“Loki…we grew up with each other. I helped you walk! We spent our childhood in the same halls, bored to tears by the same stories—we are family.”

“We are not family,” insists Loki. His features ripple—flush blue again. This time, Thor sees nothing but Loki. It is not so different as the other times Loki has practiced changing his appearance on him. He has seen most of Loki’s faces at one point or another. This is just one more to add to his collection.

“We are,” says Thor. He moves to rise, bringing Loki up with him. As he does so, his grip on Loki’s arms slip—

Loki tries to strike him. Thor avoids the blow, only to have Loki grab him by the throat instead. Thor grabs at his wrists, tries to pull him off—

But then there is ice, ice burning at his throat, filling and deadening every vein, blackening his blood—

He screams, the pain so great his vision starts to blacken.

Suddenly, the pressure is gone. He falls, cheek scraping against the rocks. Feels the blood start to well, new wounds stinging from the dirt.

Thor brings up his hand to his throat, but his hand is stopped by another.

“Don’t touch it,” says Loki. Thor looks up and sees he has returned to his familiar form. His hands are shaking and his lips have gone white. “Your skin is blistered.”

Thor tries to speak, but all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled, guttural gasp. He can taste blood at the back of the throat.

“Don’t talk. You can’t.” Loki reaches into one of the pouches tucked on his person and pulls out a familiar twist of healing powder, probably whisked out of the healer’s halls without their knowledge.

Loki pours out the powder over his hands and press against Thor’s throat, spreading across the expanse of frostbitten skin. His skin hisses as it heals, the powder soaking up the malevolent spell and all its signs. The sensation leaves him dry-heaving, turning away from Loki onto his hands and knees, gagging, trying to dislodge what isn’t there.

When his breath finally evens, Thor gingerly touches his throat. There is no crackling, only tender new skin under his hand.

He looks to Loki. “Thank you,” he rasps. His throat is raw, but he will manage.

Loki stares at him, disgust clear in his face, but Thor doubts it is leveled at him.

Abruptly Loki stands, and there is a shimmering around his edges.

Thor shouts his name. Once, twice, three times.

But Loki is gone.

\--

He almost—

But he didn’t.

But he wanted. He was ready to kill Thor.

It was astoundingly simple.

His hands cannot stop shaking.

And Thor thanks him! As though his near-lethal blow was no more than another scuffle from childhood.

What would Sif—

What would Mother—

_He almost killed his brother_.

Alone in the mountains, Loki screams.

\--

It is with a heavy heart that Thor finds the Warriors Three again. They are camped where he left them, around a fire, laughing at some tale of Volstagg’s. They quiet when they see his face, and when their eyes slide past him and there is no one else there.

“Where is Loki?” Fandral is the first to ask. “Did it go wrong? Is he in danger?”

“Nothing went wrong with the plan,” says Thor tiredly. “Loki…”

His throat closes up. He cannot say it. Cannot say anything about what has passed.

“I do not know where he has gone. But it cannot be far.”

“It is unlike Loki to vanish in the middle of a quest,” says Volstagg, stroking his beard.

“Indeed,” says Hogun, “But very much like him to skip to the next destination, should it please him. We should keep pressing forward to catch up.”

Thor nods, slow and heavy.

“Did the two of you fight, Thor?”

“We did,” says Thor, and nothing else. Let it be for Loki to tell.

“The Third Tooth of the mountain range, that’s what Loki said, right?” asks Fandral. “That will not be too difficult to reach. Why don’t you go ahead of us, Thor? Hash out your quarrel and put Loki in a better mood, so that he won’t put snakes in our bedrolls.” Both Hogun and Volstagg nod in agreement.

“That might be wise,” says Thor, managing only a weak smile, but their tact touches him, regardless.

\--

It is like Sif to create a trove for herself in the very mountain her enemy lurks under, though Thor can see no sign of a lindworm’s favored swampy dwellings through the thick green foliage.

Sif’s dwelling is easy enough for him to find—but only because it is familiar to him, her scratched signs in a solid rock wall. With a pang, he recognizes a spell—Loki must have created the enchantment for her to seal the cave against the world. No one will enter this dwelling that is not wanted.

Thor presses his right palm flat against the rock, cool from the shadows.

“Loki,” he calls, “Are you here?”

The rock gleams under his palm and heats, almost hot enough to burn.

“Loki, let me in.”

The rock melts away, revealing the gaping mouth of a cave. Inside, glowing stones embedded in the walls lead a path inwards.

Thor follows.

There are only a couple turns in the cave, easily navigated, and eventually it leads out into a chamber full of treasure, a rack of spears and swords, a cot and furs.

It is there that Loki is sitting, hands cradled around a goblet. He is no longer blue, but his expression is as bleak as when he first put on that face.

“We stole this cup together once,” he says without looking at Thor. “When we were very young. It was one of the first quests you allowed me to join, retrieving three rings from a particularly covetous witch. Remember that band of dwarves we supped with?”

“Of course,” Thor does not move closer, as much as he wishes to. He sets down Mjolnir. “They would not give us directions, and nearly drove Sif mad.”

Loki laughs, still looking at the goblet.

“Indeed. It took her hours to stop fuming.” He holds the goblet aloft so that the engraved marks catch the candlelight. “I borrowed this to cheer her up.”

Thor smiles, though it is somewhat strained. “Borrowed, Loki? That was centuries ago.”

“I _do_ still intend to return it one day.” He tosses the goblet over his shoulder—it still lands upright. “Whenever Sif remembers to return it.”

“I believe you.” Thor approaches Loki, watching closely for any tension in his frame.

But Loki, elbows braced on his knees, head in hands, shows no such discomfort.

“What are you doing here?” he asks Thor, without anger or curiosity.

“Seeing my brother, who has not, despite his actions, abandoned this quest? Loki, you are my brother. Nothing else matters.”

“Does not matter than I am Jotun? That a Jotun has lived among you for centuries without your knowledge. Would you have said that three days ago? I wouldn’t.”

“I would not,” Thor admits. It is difficult to force out this particular truth, because the admission chokes him. “But I would never forsake you. Nor would our friends. They know you too well.”

“Since when?”

“What of Sif?”

If possible, Loki’s shoulders hunch in even further. “What of Sif?”

“I did not know of this cave, Loki. I do not know if there was—a greater intimacy between the two of you—”

“There was not,” says Loki, harshly.

“Regardless,” Thor pushes on. “I have fought with Sif. I have championed her. But you have shared moments with her that I will never be able to touch. You and Fandral, Volstagg, Hogun—all of us. You are not expendable, Loki. We would never abandon you.”

Loki does not answer. Thor reaches out to touch Loki’s shoulder, but lowers his hand instead.

“At least wait until we can speak to Father of this,” he pleads. “Perhaps, he will give you peace. He can explain.”

“Explain why he hid a monster under the noses of Asgard?” asks Loki sardonically, without looking at Thor.

“Why he adopted an enemy’s child into his family, to be raised with honor. Loki, I was but a child when you—” he hesitates. “Were brought to us. It does not matter that you were not born of the same mother. My earliest memories are of you. Nothing will convince me that we are anything but brothers. Please, Loki. Let yourself be at ease for now. I swear to you that when you go to seek the truth, I will stand with you.”

Loki laughs. But this one is softer than before.

“Until later, Thor,” he agrees. He reaches out, and Thor clasps him by the arm, and pulls him to his feet.

“Now,” says Thor, looking around them. “Tell me the stories behind some of these treasures.”

When the others arrive, they do not ask what transpired.

For that Thor is grateful.

\--

They see the light in the darkest spaces, the striated grain of Yggrisil. A sudden, shining beacon that all their eyes must follow. After the graveness of their talk and the silence of the last few hours, the sight of it brings a warmth to his heart, and a certainty that has been perilously absent since he made his choice to storm Jotunheim and brought this all upon them.

“Loki, what sorcery is this?” speaks up Fandral, behind them.

Loki, watching, tilts his head ever so slightly.

“A fortuitous sign,” he says. “I believe that we should try Midgard, next. Our dear Lady Sif has found a way to contact us.”

\--

In the end, Jane does not open the bridge to Asgard herself.

Darcy knows Jane is disappointed, because how cool would it be if she could? All those naysayers simultaneously forced to eat stardust. Darcy can appreciate the image, even if she lacks the drive.

Still, the equipment Jane does have is meant for reading the skies, not ripping them open. And the fact is that the Asgardians have a working bridge to Earth that they have been using for a couple millennia, so of course they would get here before Jane could get there.

And again, no matter how much of a genius Jane is, it really has only been six days.

They hear the Asgardians before they see them.

It’s breakfast; the four of them crowded around the kitchen table, preparing for another day of possible-bridge-construction, when there is a sudden thumping against the glass. Darcy looks up from her toast and is nearly blinded by the reflection of the sun off polished armor. When she recovers enough to look again, she sees that there are five men, their faces practically flattened against the glass, grinning and waving at them.

“My friends!”

For a moment Darcy is terrified that Sif will just blast straight through the glass, she jumps out of her seat so quickly. But fortunately, she skids to a stop at the last possible moment, flinging open the door and rushing them all in a hug.

She disappears in the middle of a mass of gauntlets and sleeves and breastplates, though one member of the party hangs off awkwardly to the side. Darcy looks to Jane and Erik, to see if either of them are having aneurysms at the sight of an orgy of six aliens just outside their door.

She double-checks.

Well, hopefully not an _actual_ orgy.

But neither Jane nor Erik are moving. They just stand, frozen, in the kitchen.

Darcy thinks that she might have to be the one to make actual first contact (Sif doesn’t really count. That was _auto_ contact. Totally doesn’t count). But she barely takes half a step forward before Jane recovers. She shakes herself free of the daze she was in before, sets her shoulders and walks out.

Erik is still standing where he was before. Darcy supposes she can’t entirely blame him. It’s not every day your ancestors’ pantheon comes to your student’s front yard.

“Excuse me,” says Jane, her voice barely audible over the din of clanking armor and five gods talking all over her. But Sif, from somewhere within the huddle, hears her, and promptly steps out of the group of men. Looking at them, Darcy admires her composure.

“Forgive me, Jane,” says Sif. Jane starts to say something, probably along the lines of “don’t mention it” but Sif speaks right over her anyway and she falls silent. “Allow me to introduce you to my friends. These men are my greatest companions,” she points at the red-bearded giant, a blond man with elaborate facial hair, and an stern-looking man with a ponytail. “Volstagg the Valiant, Fandral the Dashing, and Hogan the Grim. They are the Warriors Three, heroes of Asgard!”

“And their greatest bane,” mutters the man who stood apart during the group huddle. He is tall and pale, and much slighter in build than the others.

“The one with the tongue is Prince Loki of Asgard, master of magic,” says Sif. She says his name just casually enough that Darcy perks up and studies him in a new light. Erik says something that sounds like a Norwegian curse.

“And this oaf is Prince Thor. Heir to Asgard and wielder of Mjolnir.” The blond giant with the impressive red cape steps into place besides Sif. Darcy whistles. He is at least a foot taller than both her and Jane. She can see why early humanity might have thought him and Sif were a couple. They match well.

Sif can’t stop smiling. “They were just telling me that they saw your signal.”

Jane no longer looks stunned. Darcy steps up so that she isn’t stuck alone in front of giant aliens. Jane’s eyes are glittering. Darcy fears an explosion of science.

Jane turns to Thor, since he seems to be the leader of this little band.

“Doctor Jane Foster. Call me Jane. Nice to meet you.” says Jane, all business, though Darcy suspects that she will have a majorly sore neck tomorrow, the way she’s craning it back.

She sticks out her hand, a bit stiffly. Thor takes it in his own, giant hand, bends low and kisses it.

_Well._

Thor’s eyes crinkle, and if he was her type, Darcy would be swooning. She feels like she’s halfway there already. “Your efforts were seen by us. I thank you for your efforts on behalf of Sif. I did not realize that Midgard had made such significant advances in their technology.”

He’s looking into Jane’s eyes—understandably, since she is the one’s he’s talking to.

But it is very intense eye contact.

Hm.

“Nah, we haven’t,” says Darcy. “But why don’t we get inside before we get all technical about it.”

“Hide the mugs first,” mutters Erik.

\--

Unsurprisingly, Sif’s friends are very nice people. Wouldn’t look out of place at Comic Con, but very nice all the same.

Especially Thor, who keeps smiling funny at Jane. And Jane, bless her soul, seems torn between staying far away and giggling like she’s fifteen.

Darcy spends a lot of time side-eying them while Erik scuttles off to the nearest pizza place—because there is no way they will be able to feed six Asgardians out of their kitchen, not after the trouble with keeping Sif.

Speaking of which, Sif is dragged off the skinny dark one (yes, _Loki_ , she knows, but it’s more fun to refer to him in that way) pretty quickly. They stood at the furthest corner of the auto shop, their murmuring impossible to make out, though not for a lack of trying on Darcy’s end. The guy looks like he stepped out of a Tim Burton film and his sharp eyes do not leave Sif, and they are making a very good show of Not Touching each other. Darcy finds it fascinating: she has never been shy, and body language is sort of her thing. If a guy is trying their best to Not Touch, that was always a sign to pay attention. A mutual Not Touch was always engrossing.

The three men sit at the table, chairs creaking dangerously, and Darcy cringes with every shift they make. The slender blond with the funny mustache keeps making faces at her and trying to make her laugh. If she was less distracted, she would let him.

Instead, she keeps looking over to the coffee maker, where Jane is valiantly grinding espresso beans and trying not to seem too jumpy about the big guy in the cape. Not that he’s being aggressive or anything like that. He’s just big, and he has that smile Darcy recognizes, though there is a softness there that’s missing in the Culver U frat houses.

“You study the stars?”

He has a deep voice. Really low pitched and well enunciated and wow. Jane is not going to stand a chance. She’s swoony and romantic, even when dating weird scrawny workaholics. And if this space Viking can actually answer any of her questions, it’ll be a quick trip to la-la land.

“Um, sort of,” says Jane. “I’m not an astronomer. I study Einstein-Rosen bridges. Um, you don’t have Einstein. I study wormholes. You know, paths to other worlds.”

That’s one thing Darcy really loves about Jane. A lot of scientists have trouble with layman’s terms. Jane can switch between being technical and practical in a heartbeat. She verges on the poetic pretty much all the time, though.

Darcy keeps one hand shoved in her sweatshirt pocket, fingering her taser. Just in case.

But again, big guy moves too fast and is a little scary—scratch that, VERY scary—but he isn’t being scary towards Jane. More like he’s just big and he can’t really help himself. But he does and Jane jumps and nearly knocks the entire machine over. Thor rescues it before it can topple over.

“My apologies,” says Thor, giving Jane a sheepish looking grin. Then, “I did not realize humans had advanced so far in their scholarship. The last time we were here, you were only setting off in longboats to explore the world beyond the oceans. But now, look at you. Building your own Bifrost.”

“Ye-yeah.” Jane ducks her head so that her hair falls into her face and Thor can’t see her smile. “That’s the idea. We don’t exactly have the equipment for that.”

Thor tilts his head to one side. “What would you need?”

He doesn’t sound mocking, or like he’s currying favor.

He sounds like he wants to know.

At that point, Darcy knows Jane is _gone_. And, judging by the expression on Thor’s face, he’s the same.

Oy.

Still, she can’t exactly blame Jane. It’s been a long, dry spell since Don. And Thor is…

Well.

It is very hard not to be charmed by someone like Thor.

\--

Sif slips out with Loki as soon as the pizzas arrive. She is not particularly hungry, and Loki wishes to speak to her in private.

It is surprising, how happy she is to see him again. She feels unbearably light, and unbearably silly as a result. Especially when Loki himself does not look well, though he lightens when she wraps her fingers around his wrist and pulls him through the rest of the dwelling, out of the back, towards the trailers.

“We can speak here,” she says, stopping in the shade of Darcy’s trailer. She sits down, cross-legged in the sand, and motions for Loki to do the same. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but he seats himself besides her, their knees nearly touching.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he says.

“I think we might have to return to Midgard far sooner than anticipated,” Sif says. “The people have becomes incredibly entertaining.”

“You mean these three particular humans,” says Loki. “We stopped in Norway first and all of our favorite landmarks have disappeared. You would be quite disappointed.”

“Only you, Loki,” says Sif. “You are easily disappointed. Nothing ever satisfies you.”

There is a brief pause. “You are both right and wrong. Satisfaction has never been my nature, Sif, but…I find, for once, that I am not disappointed, either.”

“Oh?” Sif is surprised. She studies Loki. There is something drawn and tired in his features, as though his travels took their toll. But he holds himself a little lighter.

 “In what way? Clearly, it is an occasion to be marked.”

It is clearly meant to be a jest. It is not certain that Loki takes it as such.

“Thor surprised me,” he says finally. “On this quest, I believe—quite absurdly—that he has proven he is ready to be king.”

“Such high praise!” Sif laughs, clear and strong. “What deeds could he have accomplished, to earn your regard?”

“He has accepted me for what I am, and might very well avert a war in the meantime.”

Sif raises her eyebrow at that. Loki has always waffled between desiring Thor’s approval and rejecting it, but he has not, to her memory, ever voiced such a wish aloud.

“Accept you for who you are? Of course he accepts you, Thor has always accepted you, and you only realize it to be true _now_?”

Loki shakes his head.

“That is not what I mean.” A pause. “Secrets have been kept, that should never have been secrets to begin with.”

“You are riddling, Loki. Speak plainly.”

“I was not born of Frigga.”

There is stunned silence. Sif’s mind can barely process the notion.

“You jest with me.”

“I do not.”

Anger courses through Sif. Loki might have every reason to be jealous of Thor inheriting the throne, but to speak so coarsely of the Allfather—

“Loki, you may enjoy innuendo, but such talk is _treasonous_.”

“I was not finished, my dear Sif. As I was not born of Frigga, I am no son of Odin.” Loki’s voice is light and almost whimsical, as though he finds the whole affair very funny. “Still brother of Thor, I suppose, if only because he never knew any better.”

The rage in Sif’s blood quiets, though her astonishment remains.

“You are adopted?” she asks.

“Yes. I am no son of Asgard.”

“Of course you are; you have known nothing else,” counters Sif, her voice harsh. “What is it you’re not saying? _Speak plainly_ , Loki.”

Loki finally looks at her. His eyes are cold and greedy as he begins to speak.

“I am a child of a frozen realm. A place where monsters rule. Where an infant was cast out, for being small and weak, even as battle raged among the monsters. Where it was found by the enemy forces, and rather than put out of its misery, brought to the heavenly realm as a pet.”

Sif cannot breathe. She cannot imagine—Loki, a Jotun! Unwittingly, her first impression of him resurfaces, when they were both young children. He cried easily, then. Sif cannot imagine a Jotun crying.

She tries to think of anything, in their long history together, that might have suggested that he was Jotun.

Loki and his tricks, giggling with her behind a bush.

Loki and his knives, while she learned to wield a sword.

Loki and his magic, both scorned and admired.

Loki, until this very moment, undeniably Asgardian.

He looks at her, resentment simmering at his edges.

“Does it make you sick, knowing you might have lain with a Jotun?” he asks, voice whisper-soft.

Sif swallows, and does not answer. They never made any promises to each other, never acknowledged the occasional strangeness of their friendship.

_He is trying to rile you_.

It is that thought, so familiar, that calms her. It is not the first time Loki has tried to use a painful truth against her, and it won’t be the last.

“Of course not,” she says, with an exaggerated, disdainful air. “Not when I have already reconciled myself with my own desire to bed you. Any later revelations are hardly worth the effort.”

Loki’s mouth falls open and he chokes, indignantly. It is an undignified look for him, and Sif smirks.

“Well-played, my dear Sif,” says Loki.

His face is less savage now. Sif studies it. Though she has known Loki to wear many faces, it saddens her that what they believed to be his true face is simply another trick.

“How did they hide your face? Is it the queen’s magic?”

Loki shakes his head. “I can feel her in the spell, but the presence is faint; no more than the charms of protection she used to weave into my cloaks. No, she and Odin would have collaborated, to create such a complex illusion. How else would it remain undetected so long?”

They are silent for a while.

“Who knew?” asks Sif, eventually. “There is no way—how could they have kept such a secret without anyone else knowing?”

Loki shrugs, a slight shift in his shoulders. “Your brother most likely knows. There is little that he isn’t aware of. But Odin was always a sly one.”

“You do take after him,” says Sif.

Loki shoots her an odd look, indignant and hopeful at once. Sif realizes that he does not know how to take such a statement anymore.

“Why are you surprised?” she presses. “Odin is your father—he has raised you for so long, are you surprised you have inherited anything at all from him? Whoever your real father may be, Odin is the one you molded yourself after. Frigga as well—you do not forget her, certainly.”

Loki’s shoulders are hunched, and he curls into himself, the way he hasn’t done since they were children, when he wasn’t sure what to say.

It strikes her that he is frightened. That he has yet to speak to either of his parents of this.

“How did you find out?” she asks. “Who told you?”

“No one told me. It was on Jotenheim,” says Loki. He straightens up, places his hands on his knees. “During the battle, one of the warriors caught my arm.” He encircles one hand around the opposite wrist. “He froze my armor, and the cold cut down into my skin. Only my skin did not freeze and splinter. Instead, it turned that same repulsive color as the one who was holding me. When I blasted him away, the illusion reasserted itself.”

“Did you not consider that it might have been a trick?”

Loki smirks. “You know me well. I lowered the illusion myself but a few days later. Even now, I can feel it swirling over my skin. It cannot be denied. The face you know is nothing but an illusion.”

Irrationally, Sif finds herself annoyed at Loki. It happens from time to time. He is dramatic, and rather than confronting his own pain, makes a show of it. Tries to put others into his place.

“Then show me your real face.”

Loki jolts, startled.

“What did you say?”

“Show me,” insists Sif, shifting so that instead of sitting hip-to-hip they are facing each other fully. “Your true form. Or at _least_ speak plainly. How do you look?”

“My features and body are the same, if that is what you are asking,” says Loki testily. Sif bites down the urge to smirk at him. That will not give her the advantage here.

Sif sniffs. “How convenient. The Jotun we fought were nearly fifteen feet tall. If you transform into a Jotun right here, how am I to know that you are not playing a game at my expense? I won’t fall for your tricks, Loki. It is a pretty story you tell, but you must show your proof.”

Loki’s chest puffs out with his indignation, and for one terrifying moment Sif wonders if she had tread too far in the wrong direction. But the moment passes, and he bows his head, tugs at his hair with both hands.

When he speaks again, it lacks any kind of rancor.

“Sif, I am a monster, and you will know it the moment you see me. A creature that we would have killed without regrets many times over.”

“You are not a monster. You are Loki. Show me this part of you that you hate so much.”

“You will cower away from me.”

Sif laughs, throwing back her head and baring her throat. “Is that a challenge, Loki? You know how I _love_ a challenge.”

Loki says nothing in response, but his eyes harden. There is a shimmer—a ripple, across his skin. His paleness fades away, seeping back down under his collar. The whites of his eyes fill with red. Under his eyes, raised lines cross obliquely towards his ears. Curved ridges are raised upon his forehead—two concentric half circles that trace from one temple to the other. Three vertical lines mark his chin. These markings, distinct but faint, continue down the column of his throat and under his collar.

Still, to Sif’s eyes, he is undeniably Loki. He watches her with Loki’s intent stare, waiting for her to slip up, express disgust with this form of him.

He has enough loathing for the both of them, she thinks, for though she searches the depths of her memory for the most horrific stories, tries to dredge up their enemies at Jotunheim, she cannot feel revulsion.

It is…strange, certainly, but no more than any of Loki’s disguises have been strange for her.

“I see no difference.”

Loki blinks, and his familiar coloring asserts itself—Sif takes it as a victory that she surprised him.

“Please, keep it on,” she coaxes. “It is not so strange. In fact, you do not look different at all. In fact, it is almost an improvement on your usual look.”

Loki looks like he cannot decide if he wishes that she were lying or that she speaks the truth. But his eyes bleed crimson again, and his skin flushes blue, and the Jotun Loki sits before her again.

“Is it hard to hold the illusion back?” she asks, leaning closer, not letting him avoid her gaze.

“Now that I am aware of it, no,” he says, for once uncertain. “The first time…it was. It gets easier with practice, I suppose. But I don’t think I can stay in this form permanently.”

Sif does not move away. “I suppose not. It is not the face you grew up with. But it has a certain charm.”

Her eyes flicker down to his lips and back to his eyes. They blink and shutter close as she tips up her head and presses her mouth to his.

It is their first kiss.

After a moment, he kisses back.

It is everything Sif expected, in some ways. His lips are thin and chapped and when she runs her hand through his hair, it is still sleek with oil, though not so much as to be unpleasant. His taste, too, is what she expects of Loki. Even before this revelation, she always expected his skin, his mouth to be cool to the touch.

His hand touches her face, cups her cheek before sliding around the back of her neck, fingering a few of the loosened strands.

They part, out of breath, and suddenly shy.

“You will find that you can never be entirely repulsive to me, Loki,” says Sif, plucking at her shirt and no longer quite meeting his eyes.

“However,” she adds. “I hope that this revelation won’t cause you to lose your sense of humor.”

Loki laughs, a creaky sound unlike his normal cackle, but reassuring all the same. “In that, I will never disappoint you, Lady Sif, though you might one day wish otherwise.” He stands, his coloring returned to what she is familiar with. “Come on. I am certain my numbskull brother will be wondering about our absence.”

 


	4. Part IV

“We should call down Heimdell,” Volstagg is saying as Sif and Loki reenter the garage. “Now that we have accomplished our mission.”

His suggestion seems to fall on deaf ears. Thor is standing behind Jane at her desk, listening to her explanations of what she is trying to build.

Fandral is trying to charm Darcy. Hogun watches, but does not provide commentary or assistance.

Sif, who knows her way around the kitchen by now, retrieves two glasses from the cabinet and pours them water. Loki leans against the counter and observes the scene before him with great interest.

“Something interesting seems to be happening in that corner,” he says to Sif, taking a bottle from her and gesturing towards Jane and Thor, bent over her work table.

Sif looks, and laughs outright. Jane is spreading out the pictures of the storm the Bifrost manifested on Earth, pointing to different aspects and gesticulating. She is hardly taller than his shoulder

“Jane is ambitious,” she says. “You should go over and listen to her. You might be able to help.”

“I would rather not get in the middle of _that_ , if you would not mind,” he leans in close, to murmur in her ear. Perhaps it is so that Thor will not hear; perhaps he is taking liberties. “My brother gets testy when his courtships are interrupted.”

Sif only gives him a look.

“Courtship? They are _talking_.”

Loki shrugs, and drinks from his glass.

“We should call down Heimdell,” Volstagg says again. “As pleasurable as it would be to stay, our quest is done.”

“Unless Father summons us, there is no rush,” says Thor. “He is in negotiations with Jotunheim. There is no reason to trouble him at such a delicate time. If we are needed, he will call. We can afford a few days in this realm.”

Loki raises his eyebrows. “A few days in an unknown land, without a quest? My, you have grown patient.”

“Come now, Loki,” says Thor. “We have not been to Midgard in centuries, and certainly never this region. I’m sure that Sif has found much worth exploring.”

“There is much that is fascinating about Earth,” speaks up Sif. “Though I would not say I have explored beyond the boundaries of this town.”

“Then we should go exploring!” proclaims Fandral, beaming. He turns to Darcy. “What would you recommend of this area, Lady Darcy?”

“Uh…not much?”

“Yeah,” says Jane. “It’s, um, quiet around this part of this world. It makes it easier to conduct our research. Honestly, um, we don’t have much to do here; there’s only one bar and I think we got ourselves banned for the next month—”

Thor laughs. “Banned? Sif, was that your doing?”

“I am not ashamed by my actions,” says Sif. “Those men wished to have a brawl. I merely indulged them.”

“Sif was just helping out,” says Jane quickly. “They were being really rude—”

“They used your status as a scientist to make lewd and unwelcome innuendo,” says Sif. “I merely discouraged them.”

Her friends all smile at her proclamation.

“Any of us would have done the same,” says Thor.

Loki shrugs. “I cannot say I would, in all honesty.”

Sif rolls her eyes and elbows him in the ribs. “You don’t tolerate fools well. And these men weren’t even that.”

“It must have been a glorious fight,” says Thor, directing his attention down to Jane. She catches his eye and quickly looks away. “It was, yes, definitely glorious. So were the other two.”

“Only three fights? You’re losing your touch, Sif.”

Sif shrugs modestly. “Well, there was only one of me, though both Jane and Darcy aided me in the last fight.”

Thor beams down at Jane. “I did not know you fought!”

“I don’t,” says Jane.

“I agree with Volstagg,” says Loki to Sif. “We must go now, if only to save ourselves from Thor’s peacocking.”

“You can’t just leave right away,” says Jane, a little too quickly. “At least stay for tonight.”

“Why don’t we ask the lady who has been stuck here for the past week if she wants to stay?” cuts in Fandral. “She is the one who ought to get the first say.”

Sif looks between Jane and Thor’s oddly hopeful expressions and Loki’s pleading one.

“Why not stay one more night?” she asks. “Darcy and I still need to finish the tale of Xena.”

Darcy fist pumps, narrowly missing Fandral’s nose. Loki just groans quietly.

“That would suit me well,” says Thor.

“It would be interesting,” says Hogun. “We will pass on an official message to the Allfather that we have found Sif peacefully and that the terms of this quest have been fulfilled.”

“Indeed,” says Volstagg. “Not that I wouldn’t like to see Midgard with new eyes, but I must be getting home to my children.”

“I will stay,” proclaims Fandral, with an easy grin. Darcy still doesn’t look sure whether she wants to encourage him or not.

Sif looks back to Loki. “Well? Will you stay?”

Loki simply sniffs and stares pointedly away. “What do you think?”

\--

Unsurprisingly, they all elect to stay.

After the first initial wave of euphoria, Jane realizes that she has no idea where she is going to put seven other Asgardians for the night. Erik, in a surprisingly generous gesture, offers to pay for rooms at the motel.

Jane tries not to burst with the thought that there are eight alien beings currently taking residence at her research site.

Eight!

Living, breathing evidence of bridges between worlds.

Erik, in the grand spirit of the if-you-can’t-beat-them, drink-with-them philosophy, offers to drive the Asgardians to the bar one town over. Sif heartily and vocally approved of the notion. Loki apparently goes where Sif goes, and the Warriors Three goes wherever there is good booze. Darcy has promised to be the designated driver and take pictures.

Jane goes, but reluctantly.

“Remember when I said that it is a tradition to drink before an undertaking and then after?” asks Sif. “You have succeeded in your endeavor. You must come drinking with us.”

There are eight people in her kitchen (all of them much taller than Jane) staring her down. Jane does not quail, though she does step around the counter—the better that she is not carried over anyone’s shoulders.

“It’s not that I don’t want to have a drink,” backtracks Jane, and even that is mostly true. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the lab while there are government guys around.”

“You have enemies?” asks Thor, with great concern. “What do they want from you?”

“Information,” Sif tells him. “Jane, the Son of Coul has not contacted us. Why are you so certain that they will try to sabotage your work?”

“Better safe than sorry,” says Jane obstinately. “I don’t want to lose anything about the communicator.”

“That is not a difficult endeavor,” says Sif. “Not when we have a master of magic at hand.”

She turns to Loki with an air of great expectation. Loki scowls at her, turning his head to meet her gaze but not moving another muscle of his body.

“Um,” says Jane. “Really, it’s not necessary—”

“But it will be of no inconvenience,” cuts in Thor, walking up to Loki and clapping him on the shoulder. He grins at Jane. “To my brother, such wards are elementary. He needs no more than a thought to make your fortress impenetrable.”

“You exaggerate, my brother,” says Loki, every word painfully drawn out through his teeth. He sighs dramatically, and slouches over and suddenly looks less like he is about to turn Thor into a frog.

“Still, it is a relatively simple matter. Neither of you are wrong there.” He turns to Jane, who jumps and backs up a little further away from the counter. “I will set a ward in the walls of your dwelling, to enable that no one outside of us standing here will be allowed to enter, not by ground, or air, or door. Would that be acceptable to you?”

Jane eyes Loki doubtfully. Her fingers twitch, wanting a pen and paper.

“It would be acceptable,” says Jane slowly. “But how would it work?”

Loki’s lips twitch up into a small smile. “That is a question. It took me years of study to master the principles, and I do not think that I shall be able to answer you adequately without standing here for the rest of the night, which would render the spell null. Perhaps another time. Will that be satisfactory?”

“No, but it makes sense. Do it.”

Loki nods, and steps away from Thor. He steps over to the glass door where the Asgardians first stepped through, and draws a sign at his eye level, darkness seeping out of his fingers, staining the glass for but a moment before receding.

Jane feels her skin prickle as something rises from the ground and surrounds them.

She turns to Loki, open-mouthed.

“How—”

She starts to move around the counter, back towards Loki, but a pair of arms hook around her elbows and hold her back: Darcy has managed to sneak around her.

“Later, Jane,” says Darcy cheerfully, as she begins to steer Jane towards the exit and by extension, her trailer. “Let’s not keep the nice aliens waiting for their beer. You can ask them later.”

In the time it takes for Darcy to pull something sparkly over Jane’s head, the Asgardians rustle up Midgardian clothing from somewhere—Sif says it is more magic—pile into the van, and set off.

The bar is on the other edge of town, darker and seedier than _Stella’s_ , but it also means that the people already there are less inclined to stare, and the size is enough that the sudden appearance of a large party draws little more than a couple of looks.

Instead of drinking in celebration of her success and evidence (as Darcy suggests more than once), Jane perches on her bar stool, notebook in hand, and scribbles down notes from the stories and precious facts that can be gleaned from them about Asgard. Fandral describes weaponry, with frequent interjections from all of his friends. Volstagg shares stories of creation, explanations of the Alltongue and why they sound as though they are speaking English. Loki says little, but the little he does say makes Jane wish that approaching him would be easier. But there is a curious pall cast over Loki that makes even Darcy a little wary of him. Jane knows an outsider when she sees one, and decides that it would be wisest to seek information of magic elsewhere.

It is a pity, though, because it also means that she cannot speak with Thor, at Loki’s side. Their conversation looks too serious for her to cut through.

The evening is really hitting its stride when Jane closes her notebook and taps Darcy and Sif on their shoulders.

“I need to get home.”

“So soon?” asks Sif, surprised. “The night has hardly begun.”

“Well, Erik and Volstagg have gotten into a drinking contest over some interpretation about Baldur, Hogun and Fandral are…behind that crowd of girls, saying god-knows-what. I think they’re ready just to have fun.”

“And you should follow their example,” says Sif. “Come drink with us.”

Jane can’t help smiling, even as she shakes her head ‘no’. “This can’t wait. I know Loki…put some sort of protection on the lab, but I would feel better going back. And I wasn’t really in the mood to drink anyways.”

“I’ll drive you home,” says Darcy, setting down her virgin cocktail. “Party-pooper.”

Jane taps her gently on the head with her notebook. “This is the third time you’ve successfully gotten me out of the house when I had work to do. Be proud. No one else has ever managed to do that.”

“I’ll put that in my CV,” says Darcy drily. She moves to stand, but Sif puts her hand on Darcy’s wrist.

“There is another way for Jane to get home,” says Sif, smiling up at Jane in a way that is frankly a little unnerving. She twists around. “Thor!”

“What are you doing?” asks Jane, in some consternation, as Thor looks up, grins and with a nod to Loki, stands and makes his way over to them.

“It would not be fair to interrupt Darcy’s amusement, and you cannot walk home alone.”

“You asked for me, Sif?”

“Thor, Jane would like to return to her work. Would you be a gallant prince and make sure she reaches her lab safely?”

“She needs the car and you can’t drive,” objects Darcy. “I’m the designated driver here. You’ve been drinking.”

Thor shook his head. “I have had but a little. Your spirits are not strong enough to render an Asgardian insensible with a few sips. It would take a full barrel. And I would not need your car.”

“It’s a pretty long walk home,” says Jane. “It’s fine. Darcy can take me—”

“Flying would be faster, especially when time is of the essence.”

“With what?”

In response, Thor hefts up the hammer that has not left his side since she first laid eyes on him.

Jane stares closely at Thor. There is nothing mocking or even joking about his face. His offer, bizarre as it is, is perfectly serious.

“Your hammer flies?”

“It does.”

“How?”

“It is a long explanation. You would not want to—”

He catches himself.

“Actually, you would not mind hearing this explanation, would you?”

“Not if it’s a good one.”

Thor laughs. “A challenge, eh? I think you will find I will more than meet it.”

“If I let you take me home?”

Thor hesitates. “No. Should you refuse my offer, but still ask tomorrow, I would hardly refuse.”

“Oh no you don’t. Now I need to know how this is going to work.”

Thor perks up, and Jane has to look away from his smile, her cheeks burning.

Darcy still doesn’t look convinced. She turns to Sif. “You trust this guy with your life?”

“Of course. Though whether or not I trust him to leave your residence intact is another question I would be more hesitant to answer.”

Thor scowls heavily at Sif, who only gives a sweet smile in response.

“I will not—”

“I believe you,” says Jane. “Just take me home and we can talk about your hammer there— _don’t say it,_ Darcy!”

Darcy does a poor job of hiding her smile.

“Text me as soon as you guys…land, I guess.”

“I will. Have fun. Try not to get kicked out.”

“I make no promises,” calls Sif.

On their way out, Jane stops by Erik and Volstagg’s table long enough to say goodbye. She’s not entirely sure Erik even comprehends what she’s saying, they have drank so much, but he nods and smiles and claps Thor on the shoulder, so come tomorrow when he’s nursing a hangover and scowling like the devil, he shouldn’t be able to say anything about it.

Thor precedes her through the bar and out the wooden doors, where the air is cool on the desert. Jane wraps her jacket a little more securely around her.

“How does this work?” she asks, gesturing at Mjolnir.

“I swing her and she flies,” says Thor. He extends his arm to her, wiggles his fingers in a ‘come-closer’ gesture. “You will have to hold on tight.”

Jane giggles at that. She tucks her notebook into a particularly roomy pocket, and presses herself into the empty space by Thor’s side. His arm wraps securely around her middle, while her hands find their grip around his waist.

Mjolnir swings—a long, high whistle that grows higher the faster Thor twirls it, and suddenly they are no longer on the ground.

Jane can’t help but laugh in exhilaration. The speed of their travel stings her eyes and presses her flush against Thor. Her arms are numb; whether from the air or how tightly she clings to him is another story.

The desert races by beneath them, the few flickering lights remaining in Puente Antiguo, and finally the lab, darkened inside but its glass walls reflecting the lights of the stars and moon.

They land just outside, stirring up a cloud of sand. Jane inhales at the wrong moment, and let go of Thor to double over, coughing.

“Are you all right, Jane?” She hears as the coughs subside.

“I’m fine,” she manages, fighting down a sudden fit of giggles. She just flew! An interstellar hammer made her fly!

She manages to collect herself, and straightens up.

“Thank you for taking me home,” she says, with all of the cool dignity she can muster.

Thor smiles. It is a very charming smile. “It was my pleasure.”

_Down, Jane._

She clears her throat. “Are you going to go back to the bar?”

“I did not—only if my presence here does not disturb you.” Thor reaches out and immediately retracts his hand.

“Not at all.” She turns around to head for the ladder to the roof, and realizes that Thor is not following. She looks over her shoulder at him.

“Are you coming?”

Thor starts, and immediately catches up in a few short strides.

On the rooftop, she coaxes up the fire. Thor hasn’t sat down or even really moved from where he first set foot on the roof.

Instead, he is looking at the stars.

“I had forgotten how much you can see in the Midgard sky. It is beautiful.”

“It is,” says Jane. She moves from crouching by the firepit to one of the chairs, rubbing her hands together. Whether it is to keep the blood flowing, or to keep from fidgeting any more than she wants to at the moment, she is not sure. “Whenever I need to think, or just be silent for a little while, I come up here.”

“It is peaceful,” says Thor, gaze finally returning earthwards, and he moves to take the seat beside her.

Jane looks at him and away again.

Still, attractive as he is (and while Jane is comfortable with all kinds of situations, being sexually attracted to an alien is quite low on the list), that does not deter Jane from her mission.

“So…tell me about your hammer.”

Thor laughs, and sets it between them.

“This is Mjolnir. It is not just a hammer.”

“Mjolnir,” Jane tries it out on her tongue. It is a close approximation, but not quite exact pronunciation.

“Very good.” Thor does not seem to mind.

“Where does it come from?”

“It was granted to me by the grace of my father, Odin. Forged by dwarves from the heart of a dying star.”

“Dwarves? Short, ground-dwelling people?”

“Yes! Have you met them before?”

“No. Are you teasing me?”

Thor looks hurt. “I would not jest when you ask so seriously for information.”

“Just checking.” Jane mentally adds ‘space dwarves’ to her new list of alien species. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through for one hammer.”

“The methods of the dwarves are jealously guarded. But in the course of Mjolnir’s making, certain enchantments were woven through the metal. Only he who is worthy of its might can lift it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Try to lift it. I promise you, I do not jest.”

She has to remind herself that she has done stranger things in pursuit of research, but Jane reaches down and grasps Mjolnir firmly in one hand.

She pulls.

Mjolnir does not yield.

Impossible, because she saw Thor lifting it up but a moment ago.

She sets down her notebook on her seat and tries again, this time with both hands.

Still Mjolnir does not yield.

“How much does this weigh? How can you wield it? What material exactly is this made of?”

“It depends on who holds it. Mjolnir is heavy to my hand, but we know each other so well by now it is hardly a hindrance. The dwarves are secretive about their methods, so I could not tell you the composition.”

Things continue in this vein for a while. Jane asks questions as they form in her mind and Thor answers as best he can.

“Sorry,” says Jane, suddenly awkward. “I hope I’m not overwhelming you.”

“It is no trouble,” says Thor. “I am only sorry that I cannot answer your questions more precisely. In fact, I am rather embarrassed—I have never even considered some of your questions.”

Jane laughs a little sheepishly. “Trust me, if you asked me questions outside of my field, I’d be worse.”

“Now that, I cannot imagine. Not when your planet is so young, and yet already here you are, contemplating ways to reach out to other worlds.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so. I’ve been on the fringes of the scientific community for so long…before Sif came here, everyone thought I was crazy. The next thing I know, she’s telling me that I’m right. That there are bridges between worlds. And you…you’ve been listening to all of this.”

Thor smiles at that. “It is a pleasure.”

Jane can’t quite help but smile back.

“Of course,” she continues, smile fading. “That all depends on what SHIELD’s doing, hanging around here.”

Thor looks confused. He tilts his head, like he thinks he didn’t quite hear her right. “Who is he?”

“It’s an organization. They came by after Sif crashed here. I don’t know what they want, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they wanted all of this.”

She gestures gloomily at her notebook, full of new details of Asgard.

“They would fail. There is no use in suppressing the truth for too long. It always comes out in the end,” says Thor, grimly.

“Talking from personal experience?”

Thor nods. “This quest has taught me more than I was prepared to learn. It will be a while before I will be able to come to terms of it. It would have been better that I was like you, Jane Foster. Thinking and questioning before taking action. It would save those around me from much pain. I let my emotions guide me too freely. I was too certain of myself and my place in the world.”

Jane reaches out, hesitating, and pats his arm.

“Anything you’re willing to talk about? I know I’ve been talking my mouth off at you—I’m willing to hear it.”

Thor shakes his head. “No, I prefer your questions. They are far more interesting.”

“Uh…” Now asked to provide questions, Jane finds that she is suddenly at a loss. “I don’t know. What do you do in Asgard?”

Thor laughs. “More often than not, I am not in Asgard. Usually me and my friends are on a quest, or a hunt, or a fight on one of the other realms.”

“Tell me about those, then. What are the Nine Realms?”

Thor smiles. “Now that is a story.”

“Tell me.”

“Here, if I may borrow your notebook? It is easier to draw…”

Their heads close together, they speak of the stars, of the worlds to discover, one hearing of them for the first time, the other seeing them anew.

\--

Being the designated driver for a bunch of aliens is _not_ fun. Especially when the particular aliens also happened to inspire some of the hardest-drinking gods.

Darcy wouldn’t be surprised if the bar issues a lifetime ban this time, seeing as the Warriors Three managed to instigate a massive bar fight that got the police called. She’s still not certain how she and Loki (the only ones not involved in the actual fight) managed to shepherd everyone into the van and away before the sirens got anywhere near them. She suspects Loki’s weird muttering might have had something to do with it, but is not about to push her luck by asking.

It does solve the problem of where the Asgardians are going to sleep. She leaves the Warriors Three are snoring in the back of the van. Hogun looks the most comfortable, half sitting up by the side, while Volstagg is flat on his back and snoring. Fandral sports an impressive black eye—courtesy of flirting with the wrong woman—and his neck might very well be stuck in that position by the time he wakes up.

She gets them blankets, but there is no way she’s going to try to drag them out of there.

Sif is cheerfully tipsy, and slides an arm easily around Loki’s waist and pulls him off to her cot. Darcy doesn’t think they’ll do anything but sleep.

Hopefully.

…She’s not gonna think about it.

Erik is still barely conscious, but he’s very solidly built for an old guy, and Darcy’s arms are aching by the time she dumps him in her trailer, and goes off searching for Jane to see if she can bunk in her RV.

There are no lights on in the lab, but there is a flickering from the roof.

Darcy heads up the ladder, takes one look at the two forms huddled together, and promptly starts climbing back down.

She’ll just pick the lock.

\--

Something heavy slams into Jane’s trailer, jolting Darcy out of her slumber. She scrabbles at the blinds and yanks the window open.

It’s Jane, still in the same clothes as the night before and a total mess.

“Coulson’s back. And he has a lot of friends.”

That gets Darcy out of bed.

Turns out, Jane and Thor fell asleep on the roof together. Upon waking, Thor could either hear-slash-see the mass of people and vehicles circling ever closer around the lab. He woke Jane, and is currently tasked with rousing the Warriors Three.

“Where’s Erik?” asks Darcy, following Jane despite the blinding morning light.

“Still in the trailer. I don’t know what he ordered last night, but it’s better that we leave him there for now.”

The Asgardians have all assembled in front of the lab by the time Jane and Darcy reach them. Apart from a general dishevelment, none of them look particularly worse for wear.

“Jane,” Sif steps around Fandral to reach them. “You are in trouble?”

“Should we be preparing for a fight?” asks Hogun. Darcy looks again. They are all wielding their respective weapons.

“Not fight,” says Thor. “Defend.”

“I don’t know,” says Jane to Sif. She looks pale, and keeps running her hands through her hair. “This isn’t like last time. You by yourself is one thing, but I don’t think hiding the rest of them is going to help. It might just make things worse.”

“We could make it worse for them,” says Loki neutrally. “It would not be beyond my abilities. Though, I suppose these…agents, you call them? They might not let any of my tricks deter them this morning, after they failed last night.”

As one, Darcy and the rest all turn to stare at Loki.

“What are you talking about?” asks Jane. “What failure?”

“My spells were tapped last night, remember? The protections you asked me to put on your laboratory? They were not breached, certainly, but they were tested, shortly after we arrived at that tavern.”

Jane looks ready to explode. “They tried to _break into my lab_?”

“Why did you not mention this before?” Sif asks, turning to scowl at Loki. He scarcely glances up before he steps minutely away from her.

“The spells held. As they were specifically put in place to prevent others from accessing the lab, I saw no reason to spoil anyone’s fun.”

Jane rubs at her eyes. “Well, thank you. At least they didn’t get in. Just—no one say anything unless you absolutely have to.”

“Do not worry Jane,” says Thor. “We will let no harm befall you or Darcy.”

“Not me I’m worried about,” mutters Jane under her breath. Darcy’s sure she’s the only one who heard.

For her part, Darcy stays silent, even though she’s never been so wrung out in her life. She can see the perimeter now, a line of black-clad bodies and gleaming cars. They are close enough to be seen, but are motionless, like toys.

Whether they will stay that way is a more pressing question.

Agent Coulson is behind the wheel of the nearest car, to no one’s surprise. When he steps out, Darcy can see that he isn’t carrying a walkie talkie, a gun, or anything that seems immediately threatening.

This doesn’t help.

She really needs to get another taser.

Jane’s face pinches up and she looks about ready to take on a whole slew of Special Forces. The Asgardians close ranks around them.

“Hello, Dr. Foster,” greets Coulson, closing the car door. Jane doesn’t respond, just glares.

He walks forward, but pauses when he sees how Sif and the others shift into battle ready position. Agent Coulson, unexpectedly, looks completely unalarmed at the sight of six highly armed gods standing behind Jane.

“More friends, Dr. Foster?”

“Yes. Can I help you?” Jane’s voice is like ice.

Agent Coulson does not react the way Darcy wishes he would. He just nods, like Jane only said some inane pleasantry, and the mirrorshades turn to Darcy.

“Miss Lewis, it is a pleasure to see you again. I’m sorry to wake you so early after a late night—we really should just try meeting for drinks, instead of after them.”

Ooh-kay. So the men in black were watching them. That’s not surprising, per se, but Darcy’s officially terrified.

“How do you know that?” she demands, voice squeaking, unfortunately, so it lacks any forceful impact.

“Kind of hard to miss,” says Coulson. “But seriously, the bar on the edge of town? Not the best quality.”

“You try entertaining on an academic salary,” mutters Darcy. Not that she was the one entertaining but she has done the budget. She knows.

Agent Coulson does not seem to be listening anymore. “I take it the woman with a sword is Sif?”

“Indeed,” says Sif. She levels her gaze down to him. “Son of Coul. I was told of your first visit. I am sorry we could not meet.” Her tone suggests otherwise.

“So am I, Miss Sif. I take it these gentlemen are friends of yours?”

“They are.”

“I see,” says Coulson. “How did they get here?”

“They were looking for me,” says Sif. “

“We flagged them down,” Darcy pushes in, because that’s important.

“We saw,” says Coulson. “That was quite a light. Very impressive work, Miss Foster.”

“What business do you have here?” says Thor, coming up beside them. He is staring down at Coulson very…imperiously. Like that hammer in his hand is more than decoration. Darcy takes a tiny step away from Thor.

Remarkably, Coulson does not piss himself. He just cranes his neck back and looks up to meet Thor’s gaze. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

“Originally, we were just confirming your friend’s presence here,” says Coulson, still neutral. “The rest of you were a surprise. We’ve been looking at your work, Miss Foster. It is very interesting.”

Somehow, that is even more threatening. Darcy sees Thor’s grip shift on his hammer, so that it is easier to wield. A ringing sound on her other side means that Sif has drawn her sword. Loki hasn’t drawn any weapons, but it merely watching. Somehow, that’s even worse.

Oh, shit.

They must be about two seconds from interplanetary war. Thor is going to kill a man in black, the government will retaliate and Jane is going to be kidnapped as a war bride but won’t care because she will have science coming out of her ears. Darcy is also going to be kidnapped as a war bride, possibly of Fandral. Maybe Sif’s. Except she won’t have science, she’ll have to learn how to _embroider_.

“None of you need to be doing that right now,” says Coulson, still absurdly genial. “This isn’t an attack. We are merely gauging the situation. You know, if it’s E.T. or Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

“This is a bit excessive for a friendly meeting,” says Loki mildly. “Considering that you have men on every rooftop near us, each of them are armed, and your transport is also equipped with weapons.” He pauses, brow furrowing. “You even have an archer. Odd.”

“He’s the best in the business,” says Agent Coulson without skipping a beat. “You can’t blame us. One woman of mysterious origin, is not ideal, but manageable. Then yesterday, there were suddenly five more, and your weapon,” he gestures to Thor. “Is setting off sensors I wasn’t aware we had. And I like to think that there is not much that I am unaware of, these days. You can’t blame us for being careful.”

“Can I blame you for trying to steal my stuff?” demands Jane.

“We were not going to steal your stuff,” says Coulson.

“Would you swear on your honor?” asks Thor.

“I would swear that I mean you no harm,” says Coulson. He holds his hands up, away from his belt and holster. “This isn’t a threat against Jane Foster. More of a job offer. If you will.”

“Job offer?” asks Jane. She looks at Darcy. Darcy just shrugs.

Jane has a real life conspiracy offering her a job. Darcy doesn’t know whether to caution for or against it.

“Your work in astrophysics is highly original, and apparently, extremely promising,” says Coulson. “And it appears that you have initiated a surprisingly benevolent first contact.”

“Uh, I guess so?” Jane catches Darcy’s eye and looks away quickly.

“Considering you hit an alien with your car, I would call it benevolent. I checked with the hospital,” says Coulson, and Darcy’s not surprised but her skin is actually crawling now. Where do these guys get their information? “We just want to know what happened. I’ll explain inside, if you would let me.”

“Do I have a choice?” asks Jane dryly.

“You do,” says Coulson. Simple and clean as that. Darcy blinks, because for once he sounds a lot less like a man in black and more like a Phil. “May I come in?”

Jane seems to feel it too, though she doesn’t relax her posture. “You may. For now.”

“Thank you,” Coulson nods and looks at Thor. “You seem to be taking charge here. Who are you?”

“Thor, Prince of Asgard, Defender of the Nine Realms.”

Coulson’s eyebrows arch up over his sunglasses. “Thor? Like Earth’s god of thunder? Norse guy. That Thor?”

“Yup,” says Darcy. “Funny how that works out, huh?”

“Yes it does, Miss Lewis,” says Coulson.

“Come inside,” says Jane, looking around, like she’s suspicious that all of this friendliness is really just a ploy to grab her equipment while she’s distracted.

Which is…Darcy cannot entirely blame her.

\--

No confrontation comes to a head, to Sif’s mingled relief and disappointment. The man in black’s minions retreat, all save the archer, who accompanies the Son of Coul into the lab, his bow unstrung. He speaks to the Son of Coul insubordinately, though man in black does not seem to mind. Sif finds this easy camaraderie familiar, and relaxes a little.

Negotiations between Jane and the Son of Coul continue until late in the afternoon. They invoke terms Sif is unfamiliar with, such as ‘scientific autonomy’ and ‘no military applications’. Even when the Son of Coul stands up and shakes Jane’s hand, there is a sense that their business is still unfinished. It concerns Sif, and all the more so because Thor announces that Heimdell has called them back—negotiations with Jotunheim have finished. Sif is loath to leave Jane and her friends unprotected, but there may soon be war at home and if her realm needs her, she must be there.

Despite her concerns for Jane, Loki’s constant presence at her side has been a balm, the sweetness of which she never expected. The others look after her with significant smirks—particularly Darcy, who is really too sly a figure to ignore—but none trouble her.

Jane, Erik and Darcy see them off to the Bifrost site. Son of Coul is nowhere to be seen, though Darcy says that it is only conditional while Jane considers SHIELD’s offer.

“Why do you hesitate in accepting?” asks Sif. “Would they not give your work the recognition you seek.”

“On the one hand, yes,” says Jane. “On the other, there’s something off about them. Coulson might be all right, but I don’t know if I want to work with an agency that operates in the shadows the way they do.”

“Should you ever require assistance—”

“I know, you’ll help,” finishes Jane. She smiles, looking up at Sif. “Thanks, Sif. For everything. It was an honor to meet you.”

“The honor is mine,” says Sif. She would bow, but it does not feel quite appropriate enough for a woman, with no prompting, could create instruments far beyond her planet’s current level, for the sake of getting her home. It has been a long time since Sif has spent considerable company with non-warriors, and by extension, a long time since she has had female company. It is…nice to have female friends who understand her.

Darcy breaks the moment of hesitancy by barreling through and hugging Sif. After a stunned moment, Sif reciprocates, nearly lifting Darcy clean off her feet. Jane follows afterwards—Sif does lift her off her feet, and is startled to feel tears come to her eyes. She ducks her face to compose herself, rubbing at her eyes before looking up again. Erik inclines his head towards her. She returns the gesture.

“Safe travels, Lady Sif.”

“And to you, Erik Selvig.” Here was a kind man, who even when faced with legends, did not falter.

She turns back to Loki and the Warriors Three to take their place on the Bifrost site. Thor lingers behind, talking quietly to Jane.

“We should return again,” says Sif. “When there is more time.”

“Should?” asks Loki, arms folded, though his posture is far looser than she has seen in some time. “Thor will insist upon it. He—oh, _bother_.”

Sif turns around in time to see Thor sweep low and kiss Jane’s hand. But, as he draws away, Jane reaches up, cups his face and kisses his mouth—quickly, but a proper kiss, nonetheless.

“Oh, we have not seen or heard the last of Midgard for a _long_ while,” says Loki in his flattest tone. “What will Father say, I wonder?”

Sif spares him a surprised glance, but Thor is rejoining them, pleasantly stunned, and calling for Heimdell, and the last Sif sees of Earth is her three humans, silhouetted by the sinking horizon, smiling and laughing as they see the brilliance of the Bifrost.


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...this chapter is very late, and I apologize to everyone for that. 
> 
> I have two reasons for my tardiness:  
> 1) This chapter was originally the second half of Part IV. Cut off, it promptly doubled in size. Seriously. So a lot of rewriting went on.  
> 2) Mass Effect 2
> 
> Either way, it is finally here! Enjoy and thank you for reading.

\--

The soft gold of the Observatory interior has never been more glorious to Sif.

“Welcome back, Lady Sif,” intones Heimdell from his vigil, composed as though she had only left for a casual jaunt. Sif scowls at him. Heimdell returns her gaze evenly, without even a twitch of the amusement she is certain he’s feeling.

Before she can so much as respond to his greeting Heimdell presses forward. “Princes, the Allfather requests your presence. A decision has been made, regarding Jotunheim. Sister, you are to be sent to the healer’s halls.”

“I am not unwell!” says Sif, indignant. She moves to stand before him, walking right into his space as no one but she has the right to do. “And we need to have a talk, brother.”

Heimdell’s expression remains smooth. “So we do. However, my orders are from the Allfather. You will be summoned when you are needed.”

Volstagg places a heavy hand on her shoulder. Sif allows him, Hogun, and Fandral to guide her out of the Observatory, her fingers brushing the inner part of Loki’s wrist briefly before they part.

\--

They are summoned to their parents’ quarters, not the throne room, which is in some way a sign of good fortune. Surely, if Asgard were on the verge of war, they would not be told in such an intimate setting.

Loki finds, however, that war is not on his mind. Before him are the king and queen of Asgard, ostensibly his parents.

“Welcome home, my sons,” says Odin, rising from his desk. Frigga remains seated in her chair, hands inside the transparent body of a searching stone. Her face is full of such warmth and relief that any anger Loki might have felt towards her abruptly dissipates.

“We have done as you wished, Father,” says Thor. “The Lady Sif has returned to Asgard. We used no force in extracting her.”

“So Heimdell has told me. You acquitted yourself well. Both of you.”

Loki finds he cannot meet Odin’s gaze. It is too knowing for his comfort.

“What news is there from Jotunheim?” asks Thor, drawing himself up. Loki sees the slight strain around his eyes he would not have, before. “Will we go to war?”

“For the present, we will not,” says Odin. “Though they would not be faulted for declaring war upon us, for such impudence as you had shown. Laufey has agreed to view this quarrel as that of children.”

It is interesting, Loki thinks, to see Thor humbled. Every word out of Odin’s mouth seems to be a physical blow. Loki finds he does not like it quite as much as he hoped.

“Of course, Jotunheim is still too weak to muster an army. Laufey has agreed not to pursue this break of the treaty, provided we honor a particular request.”

“Apart from the Casket of Winters, what could they possibly desire?”

“Their world cannot be returned to its highest state, before the conflict and treaty. However, we can restore the damage we have caused and, perhaps, a little more. Their sorcerers seek ingredients to rites that they can invoke to stabilize their world. They wish for materials, for tools. And as a gesture of good faith, they request Thor’s presence in helping restore the damage he wrought. Alone.”

“Alone?” echoes Thor, face stunned. “How could I possibly aid them, especially alone?”

“Your presence would be seen as an act of good faith. The Jotun were never monsters. They were cruel and dangerous to the people of Midgard an age ago, but no longer. We cannot simply ignore them for as long as they do not act. They have their own traditions, culture, things they have forced to let fall wayside in their effort to stabilize Jotunheim. Perhaps it is time to help them rebuild in earnest. As I have told you before, my son, Mjolnir is not just a weapon, it can be a tool with which to forge.”

“Then send me with him,” says Loki, stepping forward. He does not see the surprise on Thor’s face, though he knows it’s there. “I could be of use in this endeavor.”

“Loki—” says Thor.

“You would,” says Odin, silencing Thor. “I was not finished. I suggested that the help of both my sons would be an even greater prize. Laufey accepted your inclusion gracefully.”

“It is only fair,” says Loki. “For me to see the kingdom you stole me from.”

There is a horrible silence. Frigga shifts only slightly. Odin shows no surprise at all. They know they are discovered.

“Thor, leave us,” says Odin at last. “My queen, if you would take him to see the maps of Jotunheim. Instruct him on the rituals to come. What sort of welcome he might expect.”

“Father—”

“Give me some privacy with your brother, Thor. We have much to discuss.”

Thor glowers, his grip on Mjolnir tightening. He holds Odin’s gaze, jaw tightening. There is no such strain in their father’s face.

Then, Thor sighs, and his grip on Mjolnir eases.

“Come find me when you have finished,” he says to Loki. Frigga comes forth, and takes Thor’s proffered arm. Together, they depart the room.

For a long moment, Odin only studies Loki. One of those deep searching stares that used to make him and Thor squirm, especially after an adventure gone south.

“You do not seem surprised that I know,” says Loki dully. “I would have hoped for more of a reaction, considering the lengths you went to keep it from me. Did Heimdell tell you what he saw?”

“I have eyes beyond Heimdell,” says Odin. “But this is not how I wished for you to know.”

“How, then?” demands Loki. “What motivates the Great Allfather to sully his house by bringing in a monster and having it play his son? Tell me that.”

He can feel the peace, that temporary respite drawn from Thor’s unbearable enduring faith and Sif’s kiss seep away from him. They are wrong. It does not matter that they grew up together—there are other forces at work. Why else bring a Jotun to Asgard and raise it with delusions to be its heir.

“No wonder you always favored Thor,” he says bitterly. “Who would be so foolish as to want a Jotun on the throne?”

“I never lied when I said you were to be a king,” says Odin, voice sharpening, but not rising. “As the son of Laufey, you should have been heir to Jotunheim.”

“Laufey’s son!”

Son of a king after all! Heir to a ruin.

“After the battle had waged, in the halls of their greatest temple, I found you. A baby, small for a Jotun.”

“Left to die,” finishes Loki. He is very close to laughing and it has never felt so inappropriate. And he is Loki—to make others uncomfortable with his own reactions is second nature.

But right now, he cannot. This sickening, this unease—it is too much for him to use.

“You are foolish, Father,” says Loki. The epithet slips out, despite how consciously he has tried to think of Odin as anything but his father. As a liar, betrayer. A common thief. “You were knee-deep in Jotun blood and you take their king’s son to raise as your own? Why? Why did you lie when you could have told me?”

“We wanted to protect you,” says Odin. He looks tired—there are lines around his eyes that are either new or that Loki has never noticed before. Not surprising, if he has been negotiating with the Jotuns this entire time. “Your mother was cloistered at the time with Thor, weaving and preparing for war. It was easy to say that we had conceived another son during the peace before. Despite the centuries which have passed since our war, Jotun are not loved here.”

Loki does laugh at that. “You have a gift for understatement, Father. They are the monsters we use to scare our children. That is not someone you want on the throne of Asgard. That is not someone you would raise to be a king.”

“You were raised to be a king.”

“And yet you always favored Thor. I was never—”

“ _You were raised to be a king_ ,” thunders Odin, at his most imperious. “I believed, as I still do now, that you could bring our two kingdoms together.”

“After we nearly tore it apart?”

“We have not held open communication with Jotunheim, not as we ought. This treaty has not held as we hoped. That Jotunheim is willing to accept your assistance in rebuilding is, I think, a welcome state. Laufey has had no other children in the interim, so I have held hope that he expects your return.”

“You would have me rule a frozen wasteland,” says Loki, almost spiteful. But there is an edge missing in his timbre. He thinks of three Jotun, in the depths of the vault, so desperate to rebuild they would trust the Silvertongue, the moody prince of Asgard.

“You would be the king of an ancient, magical race. Perhaps you will not. Either way, you are a son of Asgard. You are still my son.”

Loki cannot find falsehood there. His immediate instinct is to deflect, deflect, find the weakness and drive in the knife—

But the rush of blood is settling, is no longer pounding in his ears. It is not the warm, soothing calm he had before, but it is real. He has purpose. He has substance. He is not quite worthy, but he is all right. Jotunheim rises before him again. How much of that was carved through means other than physical? What makes their magic form in such peculiar manifestations?

“I will have to see what they have to offer,” says Loki, stiffly. “To understand.”

“Do Asgard proud, Loki,” says Odin. “You were born mercurial, but you have a talent for mediation that will carry you well, should you chose it.”

“We will have to see about that,” says Loki tartly.

“Loki,” says Odin. “You are dismissed. I would—”

“Father?”

Odin pauses. Waits.

This isn’t a confession, Loki reminds himself. It is merely additional information, to complete the picture of the events of the last few days.

“The Jotun who invaded Asgard. Someone let them in.”

Odin does not visibly react. His gaze pierces straight through Loki. “It does not surprise me, as much as I would wish it not to be true. But Laufey was…eager to drop hints about the agent’s identity, even if he never spoke his name.”

“Will you seek punishment?”

Odin turns away from him then, to the east wall, upon which the nine realms are painted in shimmering colors. “Should he ever make his identity known, I will have no choice. Asgardian blood was shed. Our guards may be sworn to defend the palace with their lives if necessary. It should not have been necessary.”

“Indeed.” He does not want to say it. He has not yet told Thor, nor Sif. He had not meant to see anyone killed. He cannot imagine what they would think of him. Their good grace is still tenuous in his eyes.

But still, he is compelled to speak. “Father, I—”

Odin holds up one hand. Loki’s mouth snaps shut, hard enough his teeth rattle.

“Do not speak, my son, without considering the consequences of what you will say.” His voice is heavy with sadness, and Loki feels deep in his belly the flickers of shame, as well as anger at nearly forgetting himself. But the shame is the worst. For once, there are no excuses to be made, and excuses will not work here.

“Recompense will be made in good time. His actions will weigh heavily on his soul. No, we will find and watch this agent. Should he betray us and threaten the lives of our subjects again, he will be dealt with as he deserves. But for now,” Odin turns back around, his face smooth and kingly and implacable. “They have been provided for, and should live comfortably, but I believe that they should have the special interest of a member of our family. Usually, your mother would take up that duty.”

It’s a chance, Loki knows. Another chance. How many of those will they give him?

Sometimes, it seems, almost too many.

It is…fair, as hard as it is to admit the truth.

Loki bows, full and formal. “You have my word, they will be looked after.”

Odin inclines his head. “I am grateful that you are willing to take on such responsibility. It will serve you well in the future, my son.”

“I will conduct myself in a way that honors the House of Odin,” says Loki, because it is true and for once he does not trust himself to say anything more.

It is not quite enough. But it is there, for now.

\--

They join Frigga and Thor in the library, and remain ensconced there for several hours, poring over their accumulated archives of Jotunheim’s history and culture and geography. There is much, but it disturbs Loki how many of their books repeat the same meager facts, over and over, with greater or fewer words as the scribes see fit. It is clear what his role will be when they go to Jotunheim—to correct such a shortage.

Still, he allows Frigga to pull him deeper into the stacks, the voices of Thor and Odin growing increasingly muffled behind the heavy wooden shelves. She wishes to speak privately with him—a silent request he gladly fulfills.

“You will have to bring back more stories for our collection,” she says, voicing his thoughts aloud. Her voice washes over him, serene and composed, as it has always been. “I have heard fragments of poetry, of their own epics, but never anything in full.”

“I cannot see them telling me stories so willingly,” says Loki, a little scornfully. “Unless you wish me to crouch with the children.”

“Oh, hush,” says Frigga, casting him a stern eye. “We are not all that different from the Jotunheim. We break bread with former enemies, we boast of our own accomplishments, and everybody loves a good story.”

“I don’t think they will be more willing to speak with me as though I am one of them. You are optimistic, Mother.”

“Really? I was optimistic that a Jotun child would grow up like any other, into a son I could be proud of.” She turns to face him fully, one hand reaching out to gently touch his cheek. “I have yet to be disappointed.”

Caught off guard, Loki shifts, unwilling to break their contact, but still disquieted.

“You speak with a mother’s eye,” murmurs Loki. “You do not always see our travesties.”

“So he says to the one Midgardians call the goddess of prophecy,” chides Frigga, tapping him lightly on the cheek before withdrawing her hand, turning back into the shelves. “Come now, Loki, you know that it is not always appropriate to reveal all that you see.”

More seriously, she continues. “I do not expect you or your brother to reach your full potential without mistakes. I never have. My hope has always been that you would help each other overcome whatever obstacles are set in your path.”

“We have set more than a few obstacles in each other’s path, as well.”

“Such is the way of loved ones,” says Frigga, smiling. “And those will be the ones that make you strong, able to withstand all the universe has to throw at you.”

“I wish I inherited your faith, Mother.”

“Just remember that we love you. And have always loved you, no matter what.”

She is looking at a shelf far above their heads as she speaks, but Loki smiles at her, regardless.

“I am not foolish,” says Loki, also looking back into the shelves, searching for a book on the moons of Jotunheim. He sees Vanaheim, Alfheim, even Midgard—but not Jotunheim.

“Indeed you are not,” says Frigga. “Neither is your brother. You both will go on to do great things.”

“Perhaps,” says Loki. “Though Thor might not be so quick to assume the throne. He was…a little distracted by Midgard.”

Frigga pulls out a crumbling scroll, still not looking up at Loki. “So I heard. What is your impression of her?”

“What are you talking about?”

He cannot see her face clearly, but can imagine her look of fond exasperation.

“I know that look very well, Loki, and unless you wish for me to make you blush about your own young lady, you will tell me your impression of Thor’s.”

“You would not,” says Loki, mortified.

Frigga simply smiles at him, amused. “No stalling, my son. Tell me your impressions.”

Chastened, Loki does so.

\--

Sif does not leave the Healer’s Hall until nightfall. Not because she has extensive injuries—even the scratches from Jane’s vehicle have healed entirely—but because it is an absolutely transparent effort to keep her from meeting with the princes until whatever plans they have made are solidly in place.

To be contrary, she does not proceed directly to Thor’s quarters—Loki has always guarded his own jealously—the way others might expect she would.

Instead, she returns to her own. Everything is as she left it, though since she left on the very day of Thor’s coronation, it is even neater than usual. Her honey-gold coverlet is smooth over her bed. Her rack of personal weapons well organized.

There is a stack of books on her bedside table. Vaguely, Sif recalls that they were recommendations of Loki’s. She flips through them aimlessly—though a couple volumes might be promising for Jane, so she sets them aside.

The sky is dark before the door to her chambers swing open, and the princes enter.

Once they are seated, Thor on her armchair and Loki on her bed (she glares at him for the liberty—he just waves his fingers lazily in her direction), Thor immediately launches into an explanation of their mission to be.

He seems energized, his grin bordering on manic as he describes to her the details of their mission to be. Loki, for once, simply lets his brother speak. Such passiveness is unusual, but Loki’s silence seems more well-rested than sulking, which is an important distinction.

“This is incredible,” says Sif, when Thor finally finishes his tale. “But will you really have no companions apart from each other?”

“We must be vulnerable,” says Thor. “Just Loki and myself. I am sorry that you will sit out the adventure, Sif, but perhaps there will come a time when you can see Jotunheim as well.”

Sif groans. “As much as I enjoyed Midgard, I am being to find this pattern tiring.”

“Just as well,” says Loki, addressing the ceiling. “You would probably start a new war in the middle of negotiations, and everything would be on fire.”

Sif throws a pronged dagger at him. It whistles harmlessly over his head and embeds itself into the opposite wall.

He sits up at that, reaching over to pluck it out. He turns it over in his hand, studies the inlay. “This one is mine. Where did you get it?”

“On Jotunheim, out of the body of one of our opponents.”

“Oh.” Loki looks again at the dagger, and sticks it back into the wall. “Perhaps you should keep it, for now.”

“What happens after your stay?” Sif asks, returning her attention to Thor. “You will return to Asgard, and then what? Will you have your coronation?”

“If all goes well…” Thor hesitates, shifting forward in his chair and bracing his elbows against his knees. “With luck, we shall survive Jotunheim. But…I will have to speak with my father of this, but I do not think I will be crowned.”

Sif stares, astonished. She looks at Loki, whose expression is similar.

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” asks Loki.

“Someone with a little more sense, I would hope,” says Thor, with the merest twitch of a smile. “No, I am not ready. I know too much of how to make war and not nearly enough of keeping peace.”

“Now those are kingly words,” says Sif. “Are you certain you brought back your brother, Loki, and not some scheming elf instead?”

Loki looks at her in pure disgust. “Do you really think I would be so stupid?”

Sif makes a sort of neutral hum, and goes back to polishing. She hears Thor chuckle gently at their exchange. Heat rises in her cheeks, and she shakes her head, impatient with her own awkwardness. She is not a child, she is a warrior, and warriors are not embarrassed by their own feelings.

“Astute of you, Brother,” says Loki, again reclining back on the cushions, though the foot still brushing the ground twitches, like he is repressing a great deal of energy. “How would you propose to rectify your ignorance?”

“Jotunheim will be a very good start,” says Thor, with a self-deprecating grin. “But after, I think I might turn my eye not only to affairs in Asgard, but those on Midgard as well.”

Sif looks in time to see Loki’s rather dramatic eye roll. “If you want to see that woman so badly you don’t have to make excuses—”

“I am not making excuses,” Thor insists, still calm. “Midgard has developed at an alarmingly fast rate, and we have somehow missed it. Doubtless, other races will start to notice it soon. And they will come. Some to negotiate. Some to fight. Either way, Midgard could use our support when they arrive.”

“Who would pose a threat to Midgard?” asks Sif. “Our relationship with it has always been special. I doubt anyone else would single them out the way the Jotun once did.”

“Midgard has resources beyond what I ever expected,” says Thor darkly. “They also behaved…strangely, in response to your presence. Midgard might have more surprises yet.”

Loki exhales, shaking his head. “You don’t know that for sure.”

“And still it would hardly hurt Midgard to be under my protection.”

“Our protection,” corrects Sif, returning her attention to polishing her shield. “I certainly won’t leave my new friends under your sole care.”

She can almost see Thor scowling down at her. “I never said you would.”

Her bed creaks, and Sif looks up in time to see Loki stand up, brushing off his doublet. “Do as you will, brother. I tire of this conversation. I will take my leave of you.”

Sif stares at him, barely acknowledging his nod, that slight bow by which he intends to take his leave. He turns, but before he has taken more than two steps Thor is out of his chair and blocking the way to the door.

“No, I will take my leave of you. It will save you the trouble of sneaking back in later.”

He winks at Sif, who is too stunned to throw anything at him before he is out of her rooms, the door swinging closed with a resounding thud.

“That—how—that was not even _remotely subtle_!” stutters Loki. His mouth opens and closes, as though expecting more words to spring forth, but his words, his favorite tools, have failed him.

“He wasn’t trying to be,” says Sif, now amused. She turns to look fully at Loki, her arms now folded across her chest. “And what were you expecting? Trying to walk out so quickly?”

Loki just looks at her, a familiar annoyance and something else warring on his face.

He exhales, long and slow.

“I make no apologies for my behavior, Sif,” he says. He turns and walks out onto her balcony, hands clasped behind his back. “Coronation and kingship may be a favorite topic of conversation for Thor, but I find it more than a little tiring. I simply did not want to spoil the evening.”

“I appreciate your tact,” says Sif drily, but moving to join him out in the warm night air, looking over the glowing realm, lit by house fires and street lanterns. “I would have thought you might be interested in it again, if Thor is not pursuing the crown.”

“After what I have learned? There is no way I could be king of Asgard in good faith now,” scoffs Loki. Sif listens carefully, and is relieved that his tone lacks the bitter edge she has grown so accustomed to in the months preceding Thor’s placement as the crown prince. “I still don’t understand what the Allfather was even thinking, raising both of us as candidates. He should have known that it would not work out. Nor would making me a king of Jotunheim.”

Sif looks sharply at him. “What?”

“In at least one sense, they never lied to me. Laufey, the king of Jotunheim, was my sire. I was born a prince. Odin hoped for me to rule Jotunheim.”

Sif raises her eyebrows. “And yet he never told you that you were Jotun?”

“Correct.”

“That is foolish,” says Sif, shaking her head. “They would not ever consider an heir as someone not raised on Jotunheim, just as we would never accept another Asgardian as our ruler. No strangers.”

Loki angles a sly look at her, the corner of his mouth turning up. “I don’t know about that. I think that you could be a most popular queen.”

Sif stares at Loki, disbelieving. “Considering how much trouble they had with me being a champion of Asgard, I call you on your lie, Silvertongue. The only way Asgard would consider me a queen would be as wife to the king. And _that_ is not going to happen.”

“I don’t know about that. You have proved your worth many times over by now.”

“And if you handed me the throne I would not have a kingdom, I would have a revolt.”

Loki laughs softly, and shifts closer, though not close enough to touch her.

“I don’t know about that, but your point is well-taken. No, we will see what happens in Jotunheim.”

“Would you stay?”

Loki shakes his head. “I cannot imagine it. But, then, I do not know what I will do, either. What about you, Sif? Will you be kicking our army into shape while Thor and I are away?”

“Perhaps. But I have some thinking of my own to do. Midgard was…enlightening, in certain ways.”

This time she moves, and wraps her arm around his waist.

“I was worried for you,” says Loki, almost as though it is a passing thought.

“Oh?”

“Not that you were hurt,” he clarifies. “But that we—”

“That you wouldn’t find me?” She angles her head with a ruthless smile.

“Oh, no. Not that. But there was always the concern that Thor would get us all killed, or Fandral would offend the wrong husband, and we would be infinitely delayed.” One of his hands runs across her back, lingers at her neck.

“Of course,” says Sif, smiling, but unimpressed. “Well, you found me. Now what do we do?”

Loki slants her an amused glance. “I would have thought it would be obvious, my lady. Enjoy our time alone.”

“So he says, after trying to leave me so quickly but a moment ago,” observes Sif.

Loki laughs quietly.

“I would have come back.” He turns to face her, moving within her arms, sliding his hands up and over her skin, cupping her face. He leans in, as though to kiss. “The shadows in your room are dark enough to accommodate me.”

“Mhm hmm,” Sif leans back, just a little, to tease him. “That sounds like experience. I don’t like it, Loki.”

Loki does not seem particularly troubled. “I assure you, Sif, that if you ever find evidence that I entered your bedchamber without your express permission, I give you the freedom to choose a punishment to your liking.”

\--

The preparations for the princes’ mission are varied and top priority. Loki is gone from her room before she is properly awake. This does not trouble Sif particularly, especially not when she passes clusters of harried guards in the dining hall, all of whom are muttering about ‘snakes and charms’ and it takes nothing to deduce that Loki is in a foul enough mood without her teasing him about forgetting to leave a note.

Instead, she joins the Warriors Three for breakfast, regaling them with a couple choice stories about Jane’s attempts to craft her device and Darcy’s defense lessons. Then they go their separate ways.

Sif heads to the courtyard to catch up on the hours of practice she missed while on Midgard. The other warriors welcome her back gladly, clap her hard enough on the shoulders to jolt her, and laugh when she throws them down during her spars.

She is not as out of shape as she feared, however, her body is still winded and sore by the end of the session.

Thor shows up, to her delight, though he is not wearing suitable armor for practice. She waves him over, pausing in her rounds with her dummy, the other warriors having begged off from partner responsibilities.

“How goes the preparations for Jotunheim?” Sif asks, when he approaches within earshot. She gestures at him to bring her a spear from the rack, closer to him than to her. He obliges, pulling out the nearest one without disturbing the others.

“It goes. It is tedious and I am still impatient, but it is important, so it goes,” he says, stopping just a couple of feet away. He offers the spear to her with both hands, in outrageous ceremony. She slaps his shoulder for his cheekiness, but accepts the spear with a similar grace.

“Might I speak to you privately?” he asks in undertone as the spear changes hands. Sif nods.

“What about Loki?” she asks, both for her own curiosity and for the sake of anyone listening. The request for privacy confuses her—that Thor even feels the need to hide this question.

“Still with Mother, searching for books,” says Thor. Sif nods, understanding. Loki will not be a part of this conversation.

“Give me a little time to complete these exercises,” she says. Thor nods, and with a final call to one of his friends, departs. Sif watches him go, puzzled.

Exhausted, Sif leaves the castle grounds, wandering instead towards the trees that line the outskirts. There is a clearing she finds more by body memory than by conscious thought, weaving and ducking through the rocky path. It was a favorite place of hers to play as a child, and still is.

To her surprise, someone else is already there.

Thor, however, does not seem startled by her appearance. He lies on his back, eyes closed, without his armor or his cape, Mjolnir planted in the earth by his side. At her approach, he merely opens one eye briefly, before closing it again. “Lady Sif.”

“Thor,” acknowledges Sif. She moves to sit, while Thor pushes himself upright, crossing his legs so he can sit more comfortably. “Why here?”

“Enjoying a very rare moment of peace,” he hesitates. “Also, I wanted to speak with you somewhere no one could hear. Mother has promised to keep Loki with her all day, and if there is anyone he wouldn’t try to slip away from, it’s her.”

Sif nods. “True enough. But what did you want to speak to me about?”

“Loki told me that he showed you his other face.”

“His other face,” Sif repeats, confused, before remembering. “Yes…yes he did.”

Thor nods. “What did you think of it?”

“Think of it? It was…astonishing, I suppose. It’s still him.”

“And that is all you thought?”

What is Thor thinking? Sif just stares at him.

Then she understands, and resists the urge to either hug him for being a good brother, or punch him for being stupid.

“Actually, now that you mention it, I thought the blue was rather sexy. A very nice shade when you see it up close.”

That prompts a rueful smile, and something in his manner eases. “I will take your word for it.”

“What did you expect me to say, Thor? That I found it repulsive? That I find _him_ repulsive?” For a moment she wants to just launch herself at him and start a brawl. But no. That would be unwise.

“I just wanted to know what you thought,” insists Thor, still implacably calm. “There has been little time to adjust to this change. I just wanted to know what it means for you.”

Some of Sif’s anger recedes at that. She forgets, sometimes, that Thor is the elder brother, and by extension, his protective streak regarding Loki is almost instinctual.

“Rest assured, Thor. Little has changed between Loki and I because of that,” she hesitates. “I suppose that is surprising, after being raised with the Jotun as one of our greatest enemies.”

Thor nods, his face solemn. “It has been a shift. I wish I was ready to speak to Loki of it, but…you understand.”

“I do.” What else have they simplified, or misunderstood. The Jotun were in the wrong, invading Midgard. She believed it firmly. Yet, of course they are not _only_ monsters. “The prince of the Jotuns—your father is brave, Thor.”

“I do not know if I would say that. But I am especially glad Loki chose to tell you his story. You deserve to hear it.”

“Especially?” Sif stiffens a little at that. There is no reason to, she tells herself. Thor is not being condescending, merely stating a fact.

Thor’s smile this time is kind. Reassuring. “I think that you are matched well, Sif. Have no fear that I disapprove. It was…surprising. You are like my sister, and he is my brother. But you are good for each other.”

“As though that would stop us,” says Sif haughtily. She sobers quickly. “However, I am truly glad that you feel otherwise.”

They sit in silence for a time.

Sif breaks the silence first. “What of the others? Will Loki tell them? Has he told them?”

Thor shakes his head. “I do not know if Loki plans to tell the Warriors Three, though I hope he will. For now, Father wishes for the knowledge not to be spread. I am not sure if most of Asgard will ever know it officially.”

Sif looks down into hands, resting on her lap. “I would have never expected the Allfather to do such a thing.”

“Pass off another being as his own child?”

“No. Adopting a Jotun and then refusing to give a child the truth to understand himself and his world. What was he thinking?”

“He did what he thought was best,” says Thor, rubbing at his forehead. “Though this plot of his was absurdly tangled. I do not know why Mother went along with it.”

“She must have felt the same way,” points out Sif. “There would have been little affection for Jotun in Asgard. But it does not matter. Loki grew up as ours. What matters now is reforging the treaty and, perhaps one day, create peace.”

“I agree.” Thor seems to revitalize, looking rather more like his old self. “I am glad to have you back, Sif. My brother and I…we are lucky to have you.”

Sif leans back. It is a lovely day, and the sun seeps under her skin.

“We are all lucky to have each other.”

\--

She had already intended to pay a visit to her brother, but he makes the first move. She is only just stepping out of her bathing room when a guard knocks, and announces Heimdell’s summons.

Hair still wet, Sif doesn’t bother with more than a clean tunic and a few basic pieces of armor before setting off for the Observatory.

The sky is dark and full of stars. It seems to grow ever larger as soon as she steps upon the Bifrost. As always, she feels small in those moments, briefly overwhelmed by the vastness of the void around her.

When she enters the Observatory, her brother is not at his post but at the edge of the Observatory, looking through an open portal out into the universe.

“Heimdell,” she says, to catch his attention, though she doubts she really needs to.

He turns to face her, in full armor, hands clasped before him.

“I believe you have something you wished to say to me?” he asks, his face unreadable, eyes piercing.

Her brother is intimidating at the best of times. It is a struggle for Sif to hold onto her anger, not let it turn into anxiety, but she manages.

“I do.” She crosses her arms before her chest. “You used me to prove a point between the two princes. You took advantage of my person and left me in the very position I loathe the most. I cannot let such an insult lie.”

“It was never meant to be an insult,” says Heimdell. “I had no wish for you to be hurt.”

“I know. Which is why I ended up on Midgard, was it not? No one on Midgard could have harmed me.” She lifts her chin high. “It doesn’t matter. I wish to know your reasons.”

“My reasons,” repeats Heimdell. “For an accident?”

Sif scowls, fights to leash back her temper. “Brother, we may not have grown up as ordinary siblings, always in each other’s confidences, but I have always considered you trustworthy and one of my truest allies. To find that you regard me otherwise is a _great_ disappointment.”

“It is not a reflection of my opinion of you, Sif,” says Heimdell, breaking his still façade and stepping closer to her. Sif is caught off guard by the faint lines of worry upon his face.

“Then just tell me what it was.” Sif’s voice grows softer.

Heimdell looks pensive, considering.

“The princes are good men, but flawed. They are insular in their goals and expectations, focused on the throne and the glory of Asgard. Problematic, when they must attend the needs of several realms. And then Loki change on Jotunheim.”

Sif is silent. This is no surprise to her, that he knows.

“Loki’s reactions were…frightening to consider. And Thor’s actions would force Odin to drastic action. They were too close to Asgard. The best thing to be done was to draw them away from the throne.”

Heimdell pauses. “You know them better than I, Sister. You know that in recent years, their priorities and interests have diverged in most ways. One of the few ways their interests align, is in family. In friends.”

There must be something she can say, but Sif cannot find it.

Heimdell presses on.

“You grew up with them, Sif. There has always been a…unique bond, between the three of you. Your absence was the best shock I could consider. The others might have been effective, but it did not want to risk their injuries. Was it unfair to you? Perhaps. Either way, I am sorry, Sif, for the trouble I have put you through.”

He looks to her, waiting for her next words to either condemn or redeem him.

If she is honest to herself, her anger with Heimdell is more on principle than a true anger for the events that have transpired. She would not trade her experiences on Midgard, or the shift in her relationship with Loki for anything.

“I accept your apology,” she says carefully. “I understand your reasons. Regardless, I cannot allow myself to be put in such a position again. I must ask for a boon.”

Even through the helmet, she can see every change in his expression, the creases at the corners of his eyes and his slow smile.

“What would you have in mind, Lady Sif?”

It is a good question, and one she has considered for some time. “There is a magic sword in Asgard. Not so important as to be kept in the Allfather’s vault, but valuable, nevertheless. I have heard that it can cut through dimensions, so that one may travel between worlds without your help. I would like this sword for my own.”

“For unforeseen events such as this one?” asks Heimdell.

Sif shakes her head. “No. Actually, I believe that it is time for me to make more of a name for myself. I will not stop my adventures with the Warriors Three, or the princes. But, I believe I need to go on more quests on my own. Perhaps not in search of treasure, but as a protector of Asgard.”

A ghost of a smile drifts across Heimdell’s face. “That is not who you are already?”

Sif shrugs. “I am a glorious warrior. No one can contest my skills. But—even if neither Thor nor Loki are king, it is time that we all grow up. I think it is time for me to push beyond Asgard and my own name.”

“No one would ever accuse you of vanity, Sister.” But Heimdell’s smile is true now. “Should I grant you this sword, what will you do?”

“I have never turned down those in need,” says Sif, twirling her glaive. “But perhaps now I should seek them out. Vanquish the lindworm once and for all. See these realms as more than a series of monster hunts.”

“A noble cause,” says Heimdell. “Asgard would be proud to have such a thoughtful warrior as its champion.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“As you wish, sister.”

\--

A few days later, the princes depart for Jotunheim with little pomp or circumstance. Sif and the Warriors Three are present to see them off.

“We shall return as soon as our tasks are finished,” Thor reassures her. His hair has grown long enough to need tying back, and he twirls Mjolnir idly. It is his way of hiding his anxiety. “Should you see Jane Foster before I return—”

“I will pass on your message,” replies Sif, rolling her eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself. I do not forget so easily.”

“My apologies. It does not bode well that we have been separated so shortly after meeting.”

“Jane Foster will not forget you so easily, Brother,” calls Loki, impatient. “She is every bit as single-minded as you are.” Sif catches his eye and smiles.

“Do not play too many tricks on Jotunheim,” she warns. “They have nothing of our sense of humor.”

“If their world is so deprived of humor, how could I possibly resist?” asks Loki, so stonefaced that he cannot be doing anything else but hiding a smile.

“Keep him safe, Thor.”

“I shall do my best.” Thor claps his hand to his breast.

Sif laughs.

“Sister,” says Heimdell. “I would advise that you step away now.”

Sif obliges, stepping behind her brother as the Observatory begins to spin around them. The Bifrost pulls first Thor, then Loki through.

Loki looks at her, even as the shining white light engulfs him. Fandral elbows her in the side—she jabs him right back. They have been discreet in their conduct, Loki seeping into her room through the shadows, but all in their closest circle know of their relationship, and have missed very few opportunities to tease her about it.

Then they are gone. The Observatory slows around them.

\--

A month after the Asgardians returned home, and still no voice from them. Jane runs the communicator every night, in the hopes that they will see it, but now it seems to be more out of habit than hope.

It sucks. Darcy misses Sif, a lot more than she expected. Jane does too, as well as their prince.

If Darcy read things right.

Still, that hardly means Jane’s fervor has faded. She has at least three new projects in the works, now made possible by ample funding from SHIELD. So far, Coulson seems to have kept his promise about letting Jane do her own thing. Darcy, who knows more about grants than she ever wanted, can appreciate the pragmatism in accepting funds in exchange for keeping SHIELD abreast of ‘changes in relationship with Asgard’.

But.

There’s a reason she’s been spending her free time figuring out how to develop a particularly nasty virus. Just in case something goes wrong.

And it’s not like they are actually dipping into the money all that much anyways. Stark Industries sent an unsolicited letter of inquiry. Being one of the top names in clean energy these days, that kind of money would make SHIELD funds look like pocket change.

But still. It’s a quiet day when it happens. They are sitting together at Jane’s (and Darcy’s—she’s graduated to Master Intern levels now) workstations, tapping away on their respective laptops, when they hear it. All of Jane’s machines start to go haywire. Nothing like the way they did with Sif’s first descent, but something close.

“Darcy, look.”

Darcy looks, following Jane’s pointer finger to the window, where a sudden, tiny storm seems to have picked up.

The sudden wind that picks up, swirling in tighter and tighter into itself, until they have a very small, localized tornado.

Jane’s chair falls over as its occupant dashes out the door. Darcy follows, pausing to right it.

By the time she makes it outside, the tornado has compacted and grown skinny. It looks like a crooked scar against the sky.

There is a flash of light that blinds Darcy.

“Shit,” she mutters, pulling off her glasses to rub at her watering eyes.

When she looks up again, it is to see Jane launch herself towards a kneeling Sif.

“You came back!” Jane’s arms are around Sif, and Jane has never been a particularly touchy-feely person, so it’s a little odd to see.

“You might not wish to hold on to me,” gasps Sif. “I may be ill.”

Jane does let go of her, but does not back away. “How did you get here? You didn’t take the Bifrost did you? There’s something new, something different, the noises didn’t sound the same—”

“Jane, breathe,” says Darcy. “Hi, Sif. Uh, you need something? Water? A barf bag?”

Sif’s shoulders convulse once, and then she straightens back up again. “I am all right. Hello to you, Jane Foster.”

She wraps one arm around Jane’s shoulders for a weak hug. In her other hand, she clasps a red-jeweled sword, very different from the one she first wielded when she came to Earth.

“What’s that?” asks Darcy.

Still with her arm wrapped around Jane, Sif holds up her sword proudly. “A little gift from my brother, to ensure that I will never be grounded against my will. This sword can cut through dimensions.”

“How does that work?” breathes Jane, eyes huge.

“So far, I think of where I wish to go and cut,” says Sif. “However, there is still work to be done. I need to practice traveling within the realms as well as between them.”

“You want to run experiments?” asks Jane.

Sif nods, and grins. “I must warn you, the journey will be a bit rough.”

The slow smile that spreads across Jane’s face is answer enough. Darcy, on the other hand, looks apprehensive. “We won’t get torn in half doing this, will we?”

“Unlikely,” says Sif. “Does that change your answer?”

“I’m not going to say ‘no’, I’m just checking. Also, you need to tell SHIELD you’re here,” she grimaces. “It’s kind of a part of our deal.”

“Of course,” Sif looks to Jane. “Do you know their headquarters?”

Jane looks sour. “You can’t miss it. It’s this big ugly building at the capital.”

“Can you picture it in your mind?”

“Yeah. I can show you a picture if you’d like—”

Sif grins then, holding up her sword. “If they insist on being informed of my presence, they will be. Would you both care to help me get there?”


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter has been posted! Huzzah!
> 
> This story changed a lot from when I first came up with the idea, and even more after the first full draft was completed. For that, credit must go to sswolfgirl on tumblr, who was so kind as to beta for me, and in the process uncover grammar mistakes, accidental word omissions, and shallow motivations. She put a lot of man hours into this story and in the process helped make it so much more than it was before. 
> 
> Special thanks also goes to everyone who commented, gave kudos, or simply read this story. It means the world to me that you were all willing to give this very indulgent AU a chance.

The rebuilding of Jotunheim, though hardly complete, restores enough goodwill that the treaty will hold. The princes return more subdued, more serious. But they seem closer than before, as though a great burden has been lifted.

Sif is practicing in the courtyard when she hears of their return. She does not pause in her training to greet them. Instead, shortly afterwards the brothers come to her, still dressed in their full regalia.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she says in greeting, sheathing her sword. Thor’s hair is longer and Loki, if possible, seems a little thinner, but mercifully neither looks worse for wear. She would quite like to hug both of them and then just drag Loki off to a quiet corner for later, but there are several dozen warriors training around then, and such action would be unwise.

“As are you, Sif,” says Loki. She sees his gaze go to her hip and watches in amusement as both eyebrows shoot upwards. “ _Another_ sword, Sif? Do you not have enough already?”

“One can never have too many swords.”

Thor laughs. “That is true indeed.”

“You will never find me in disagreement,” agrees Sif. She punches Thor’s shoulder. “Now enough stalling. How was Jotunheim?”

“Still standing when we left it,” says Thor. “I cannot say I am very fond of Laufey’s court, or that we parted friends, but on our last night we had a grand hunt, and killed many beasts for an even grander feast.”

“Well, we don’t _need_ to be friends,” says Loki. “They just need to like us enough to not take action against Asgard.”

Loki, Sif thinks, looks remarkably hale for his stay in Jotunheim. She had feared that he might come back more shuttered, harsher, as he had been in the days leading up to Thor’s coronation.

Thor shrugs. “You would know best, brother. Now, if you will excuse me, there is something I must take care of right away. Should anyone ask, I will be in the libraries.” With a too-determined air, he turned, cape billowing, and set off for his destination.

“Try not to plunder them too audaciously,” Loki calls after his brother’s retreating back. “Your mortal does not need every storybook we possess!”

“Books for Jane already?” asks Sif, surprised. “I would have thought he’d have waited until after the feast, at least.”

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. “She made an impression. They spent perhaps forty-eight hours in each other’s company. He _still_ does not tire speaking of her.”

Sif laughs. “She’s a good woman. After you and Thor have made your reports and are recovered from your trip, we shall return to see her again.”

“That might be sooner than you think,” says Loki darkly.

“Come, tell me of your journey,” says Sif, changing the subject.

“Not here,” says Loki, eyes flickering from side to side. “Let us go to Frigga’s rose garden.”

They leave the courtyard side by side. Sif was never one to be public with displays of closeness, but her hands itch to touch him.

Frigga’s garden is not a private one, but few pass through it. It is common knowledge that it is the queen’s favorite place to rest, and few wish to break that serenity. No gardener but the queen herself attends them. The paths are winding, and well hidden by hedges that tower high above their heads.

“Well?” prompts Sif again, when they are well hidden behind the twisting paths of greenery.

Loki turns to her, reaching out, over her head, to touch a flower only just blooming. The blossom opens under his hand, and bleeds blue.

“I had no expectations for what our time there would be like, and I still found myself surprised,” says Loki. “I will never find it beautiful, but…it had its merits. I spent time with the mages, learned a few basic tricks for our particular kind of magic.”

“What of Laufey?”

Loki laughs harshly. “I never addressed him as Father, if that is what you are concerned with. The king left me to die, and we chose not to converse directly. But…he has his own code. Not as clear as the Allfather’s, perhaps, but he keeps to it.”

“So you remain Loki Odinson?” she asks.

He exhales, tucks in his chin to look down at her.

“I suppose I am,” he says, without surprise or sarcasm. Just as a fact.

A moment of truth alone with Loki. Far more intimate than a kiss.

“What will you do now?” she asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

A slow smile curls up the corner of his mouth. “Stay away from thrones a while, I think. Our little adventure has made me rather tired of them.” He reaches a hand out, fingers the ends of her ponytail. “Stay near you, perhaps, if you do not find me too disagreeable.”

Sif allows an answering smile to spread across her face. “You are always a little disagreeable, Loki. It makes things interesting.”

They do not speak much after that.

\--

When travelling by sword, even when the wielder has been practicing, there is no guarantee of a comfortable landing.

Three days after the brothers’ return, after Asgard has feasted and reveled in response to the new peace, they find themselves on Midgard, reeling from the journey. Sif is still getting used to being able to cut through dimensions and both princes’ faces have a faintly green hue.

“Next time, we take my path,” says Loki, swaying. He presses a hand to his mouth. A bluish glow emits—presumably some spell for motion sickness. Sif would laugh, if she herself was not so dizzy.

“Frankly, Loki, you weren’t much better,” says Thor, on one knee, one hand pressed to his stomach.

“I was certainly more stable—”

“I got you here in one piece, didn’t I?” challenges Sif. “Nothing missing, not like the first time you tried to sneak me into the palace through the shadows.”

“I maintain that it was not my fault,” growls Loki, though he cannot quite meet her eyes. “I did not realize that the spell needed adjustment in order to bring through material possessions.”

Thor straightens up. “You never told me this story, Loki,” he says, interested.

“We all have tales we would rather not have repeated, brother. I presume you have not mentioned to Sif about your misadventure as a bride?”

“What?”

“Your point has been made,” growls Thor. He looks around them. “How close are we to the town?”

Sif thinks he does a good job of hiding the restlessness. Her understanding of the nature of Thor’s crush is not entirely clear, but she has never seen anything quite like it. After her last few visits with Jane, and seeing the mortal’s own impatience, it is particularly satisfying.

“We are by the Bifrost site,” says Sif. “Or near enough. If you are up for flying.”

“Oh no—” says Loki as Sif wraps an arm around his waist and links elbows with Thor. Mjolnir swings and they are off through Midgard’s atmosphere.

They land just outside the garage, hard enough that the van, still parked outside, rocks back on its wheels.

They barely take two steps forward before the door to the garage swings open and Jane and Darcy come running out to meet them.

Darcy immediately throws her arms around Sif, who picks her up and swings her around, obligingly. When Sif sets her down, she immediately launches herself at Loki. He stiffens up like a board, but does not try to damage anything, so Sif takes it as a victory.

“You are surprisingly tough for such a skinny guy,” Darcy comments, still pinning Loki’s arms to his sides.

“I could turn you into a mouse.”

“A simple ‘I don’t like hugs’ is perfectly fine, you know,” says Darcy, before releases him.

Sif tries to hide her smile without success. Instead, she turns her attention to the _other_ reunion that is occurring. Jane and Thor stand but a mere foot apart and yet somehow they are behaving as if there is an invisible, impenetrable wall between them.

“Um, hi,” says Jane, hands clasped behind her back, bouncing on her heels.

“Jane Foster,” Thor inclines his head. “It is good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you look good—um, well! You look well!”

“As do you.”

They keep staring at each other. Irritably, Sif wonders if that is _all_ they are going to do.

“This is going to be agonizing,” says Loki, coming up beside her.

“Tell me about it,” says Darcy, from Loki’s other side. They share a look, and Loki does not seem quite as mutinous as he was before. Sif grins, quite unable to help herself.

“Wait until we find a bar first before you start complaining,” says Sif. “Darcy, has the ban been lifted yet?”

Darcy shrugs. “Probably? If not, there’s always Albuquerque.”

Sif shares a confused look with Loki. “Where?” she asks.

Darcy makes a vague waving motion. “Get inside and I’ll explain. Um, mind if I ask how long you’re going to be here? I mean, we got this monster grant from Stark Industries, and budget planning isn’t as much of a problem but we kind of need to allocate for groceries and you guys eat a lot.”

“Not long,” says Sif. “Well, Loki and I won’t be here for long.”

“Indeed,” cuts in Loki. “The Allfather wishes for Thor to continue to refine his skills of negotiation, and has agreed with Thor’s suggestion of Midgard. He might be a…more _permanent_ guest.” His tone indicates that he is not sure whether such a situation is a blessing or a curse.

Darcy grins. “Thor’s staying? Fine by me. My earphones are noise cancelling.”

“I think I know what that means,” says Sif. “You need not worry. He has good intentions.”

“He can also hear,” says an irritable god of thunder. The trio turn to see Thor and Jane looking at them. Sif is pleased to see that they appear to have moved closer together.

“I am merely confirming your good character, Thor,” she says breezily. “You should thank me.”

“The way I should thank you for our journey here?”

“Precisely.”

“Save the stories for the bar,” says Darcy. “Alcohol will make everything more fun.”

“I’m still bringing my notebook,” says Jane, looking up at Thor. “I have a lot of questions for you.”

Thor smiles down at her, looking like nothing else but the happiest man in all the Nine Realms. “I would expect nothing less.”

\--

Sif and Loki bid farewell to the others early the next morning, Jane and Thor both mixing hangover cures for poor Darcy. The bar did let them in, but only just barely. However, Sif believes the amount of drinks they ordered more than made up any misgivings the owner might have had. There is still a fuzziness around the edges of her senses, but nothing debilitating.

“Where shall we go first, Loki?” she asks.

“Not Jotunheim is all I ask.” Loki grimaces, bringing a hand to his forehead. “My mind is not clear on any other preferences. I did not realize Midgardian drinks have grown so much more potent since we last visited.”

“Indeed. Or perhaps it was the fight you managed to get into.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to stop us.”

“I had my own fight to worry about,” says Sif. “You can take care of yourself.”

“Of course I can. But Thor—”

“Can also take care of himself,” says Sif. “Don’t worry about him.”

“We’ll see about that,” says Loki, looking sulky. “The oaf is completely besotted.”

“He will be the better for it.”

“We should go to Ria,” says Loki, changing the subject. “Perhaps we might actually find better mead. There was a village that was having trouble with a pack of giant cats. Perhaps we may be of assistance.”

Sif lets the subject drop. They will return to it at the proper time.

“I have not heard of these cats,” says Sif. “Sounds like a worthy cause.”

Loki steps aside, gesturing grandly. “After you, my Lady Sif.”

“I am no one’s,” says Sif sternly, though she does not try to hide her smile.

The metal of her sword sings as she draws it.

Together, they cut through worlds.


End file.
